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BICHJHOND  BllIDGE  AMD  CASTLE,  YOltKSHIRE, 


ENGLAND 

ILLUSTRATED 


WITH  PEN  AND  PENCIL 


By  SAMUEL  MANNING,  LL.D.,  and  S.  G.  GREEN,  D.D. 


NEW  YORK: 

HURST  &  COMPANY,  Publishers, 


122  Nassau  Street. 


STOWE  PARK. 


PREFACE. 


THOUSANDS  of  Americans  visit  London  each  season, 
and  find  objects  of  interest  and  sources  of  amuse¬ 
ment  and  instruction  in  that  great  metropolis  of  England 
and  the  world. 

There  are  motives,  quite  independent  of  the  love  for 
natural  beauty,  which  lead  these  hard-worked  Americans  of 
our  generation  to  escape  at  intervals  to  as  great  a  distance 
as  possible  from  the  scene  of  their  daily  occupations.  The 
effort  for  this,  however,  often  ends  in  disappointment  ; 
and  many  return  from  the  eager  excitements  of  London 
more  debilitated  and  exhausted  than  when  they  began 
their  journey,  and  with  the  determination  never  again  to  cross  the  Atlantic.  An 
American  visiting  London  could  hardly  share  such  a  feeling,  still  less  form  such 
a  resolution  did  he  visit  England  as  well  as  London. 


1  here  is  a  considerable  exhaustion  incident  to  a  summer  residence  in  London 
which  can  be  repaired  in  no  way  so  well  as  in  making  short  trips  to  points  of 
interest  which  are  to  be  found  in  any  direction  throughout  England. 

it  is  true  that  the  rivers  do  not  flow  from  glaciers,  and  the  proudest  mountain 
heights  may  easily  be  scaled  in  an  afternoon  ;  there  is  no  gloomy  grandeur  of  pine 


V 


PREFACE. 


forests  or  stupendous  background  of  snowy  peaks  ;  but  there  is  beauty  and  sub¬ 
limity,  too,  for  those  who  know  how  to  observe  the  earth,  and  sea,  and  sky  :  and 
in  less  than  a  day’s  journey,  the  tired  American  in  London  may  find  many  a 
sequestered  retreat,  where  pure  air  and  lovely  scenery  will  bring  to  him  a  refresh¬ 
ment  all  the  more  welcome  because  associated  with  the  language,  the  habits,  and 
the  rural  scenes  of  a  royal  people. 

This  volume  is  intended  to  recall,  by  the  aid  of  pen  and  pencil,  some  English 
scenes  in  which  such  refreshing  influences  have  been  enjoyed  by  some  discreet 
American  travelers.  And,  as  every  wanderer  over  English  ground  finds  himself 
in  the  footsteps  of  the  great  and  good,  ample  use  has  been  made  of  the  biographical 
and  literary  associations  which  these  scenes  continually  awaken. 

To  say  that  this  edition  of  England  Illustrated  will  be  of  interest  to  English¬ 
men  residing  in  America  would  be  to  utter  a  truism. 

That  it  will  be  examined  and  read  with  interest,  also,  alike  by  those  Americans 
who  have  visited  England  and  those  who  have  been  deprived  of  that  pleasure,  is  the 
aspiration  of  the  compiler. 


BARDEN  TOWER,  NEAR  BOLTON,  YORKSHIRE. 


List  of  Illustrations. 


Richmond  Bridge  and  Castle,  Yorkshire  .  Frontispiece. 

Stowe  Park . •  -  -  page  5 

Barden  Tower,  near  Bolton,  Yorkshire .  6 


THE  RIVER  THAMES. 


Caversham . 

.  page  10 

Thames  Head,  and  Hoar  Stone  . 

.  ‘  11 

The  Seven  Springs 

.  11 

First  Bridge  over  the  Thames 

12 

Windsor . 

15 

Lechlade  ...... 

18 

The  Martyrs’  Memorial,  Oxford  . 

.  19 

Landing-place,  Nuneham 

20 

Henley-on-Thames 

.  21 

Near  Pangbourne  . 

,  page  22 

Woods  and  River,  Cliefden 

.  24 

Bray  Church  . 

26 

Eton  from  the  River  . 

.  27 

Magna  Ckarta  Island 

29 

Laleham  Ferry  .... 

.  30 

Swallows  at  Islewortli 

32 

Twickenham  Church  . 

.  33 

Wind  against  Tide,  Tilbury  Fort  . 

36 

SOUTH-EASTERN  RAMBLES:  SURREY,  KENT  AND  SUSSEX. 


A  Surrey  Common 

.  40 

Harvest  Scene  in  the  Weald  . 

41 

Weald  of  Sussex .... 

.  42 

Horsted  Keynes  Church  . 

43 

Hurstmonceux  Castle . 

.  45 

Beachy  Head . 

40 

FORESTS  AND 


In  the  New  Forest . 58 

Group  of  Forest  Ponies  ....  59 

In  the  New  Forest  .  .  .  .  .01 

A  Scene  in  the  New  Forest — The  Rufus 

Stone . 02 


Leatherheacl  Church,  near  Dorking  .  .  48 

Cobden’s  Birthplace  at  Midhurst  .  .  49 

Shere  Church  ......  50 

At  Haslemere  ......  51 

A  Hop  Garden  ......  53 

Windmill  near  Arundel  ....  55 


WOODLANDS. 


The  New  Forest — Autumn  .  .  .  .03 

Lyndhurst,  Hants  .....  04 

Stonehenge  .......  05 

Burnham .......  69 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


SHAKSPERE’S  COUNTRY. 


Warwick  Castle . 

page  72 

Shakspere  Monument. 

page  82 

Shakspere’s  Birthplace,  as  restored 

73 

Kenilworth  Castle,  from  the  Tilt-yard  .  74 

Interior  of  Stratford-on-Avon  Church 

.  83 

Warwick  Castle  .... 

75 

Anne  Hathaway’s  Cottage 

84 

Beauchamp  Chapel  .  .  .  . 

.  77 

Kitchen  in  Shakspere’s  House 

.  86 

Statue  of  Shakspere,  Stratford  Town 

Hall  78 

Stratford-on-Avon  Church 

79 

Room  in  which  Shakspere  was  born 

87 

Avenue  to  Stratford-on-Avon  Church  Door  81 

Shakspere’s  Birthplace,  before  Restoration  88 

THE  COUNTRY 

OF  BUNYAN  AND  COWPER. 

On  the  Canal,  at  Berkhampstead 

.  92 

Bunyan’s  Monument,  Bedford  . 

.  98 

Yardley  Oak  ..... 

93 

Buriyan  Gates,  Bedford  . 

99 

Birthplace  of  Cowper,  Berkhampstead 

Belfry  Door,  Elstow  Church 

.  101 

Rectory  ...... 

.  94 

Old  Hostelry,  Elstow 

.  102 

Olney  Vicarage  .... 

95 

Residence  of  William  Cowper,  Olney 

.  103 

Elstow  ...... 

.  96 

Weston  Lodge,  Olney 

.  103 

Bedford . 

97 

East  Dereham  Church 

.  104 

THE  PEAK  OF  DERBYSHIRE. 

Pike  Pool — Beresford  Dale  . 

.  106 

Haddon  Hall  ..... 

.  114 

Winter  Time — Feeding  the  Deer  in  Chats- 

Chatsworth — “  The  Palace  of  the  Peak  ” 

.  115 

worth  Park  ..... 

.  107 

Dovedale . 

.  109 

Matlock  ...... 

.  117 

“The  Shivering  Mountain” 

.  112 

High  Tor,  Matlock  .... 

.  118 

Edensor . 

.  113 

Lea  Hurst :  Miss  Nightingale’s  Home 

.  119 

WESTWARD  HO! 

Cheddar  Cliffs  ..... 

.  122 

Little  Mis  Tor . 

.  136 

On  the  Teign,  Devon 

.  123 

Hey  Tor  Rocks  .... 

.  137 

The  Glastonbury  Thorn  . 

.  124 

On  the  Slopes  of  Dartmoor 

•  138 

Glastonbury  Abbey  .... 

.  125 

Lidford  Cascade  .... 

139 

Village  in  the  Quantocks. 

.  126 

Lidford  Gorge  ..... 

.  140 

Alfoxden,  with  Wordsworth’s  House. 

.  127 

Tavistock.  ...... 

141 

Minehead.  ..... 

.  128 

The  Dart  at  Dittersliam 

.  142 

At  Lynmoutli  .  .  , 

.  129 

Tintagel  Castle  and  Rocks 

143 

Clovelly  ...... 

.  132 

St.  Pirans,  Perranzabuloe  . 

.  145 

On  the  Dart ;  Berry  Pomeroy  Castle 

and 

Land’s  End . 

146 

Harford  Bridge  .... 

.  134 

St.  Michael’s  Mount 

.  148 

Dartmoor.  ..... 

.  135 

First  and  Last  House,  Land’s  End 

9 

THE 

ENGLISH  LAKES. 

Derwentwater . 

.  150 

Borrowdale  ..... 

.  156 

Furness  Abbey  . 

.  151 

The  Bowder  Stone,  Borrowdale 

.  157 

Among  the  Fells  .... 

.  152  i 

Ullswater  ...... 

158 

Friar’s  Crag,  Keswick 

.  154 

The  Upper  Falls,  Rydal 

.  159 

Lodore . 

.  155  | 

Grasmere  ....... 

161 

LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


THE  EASTERN  COUNTIES. 


Yarmouth  Jetty  .... 

page  164 

Cromer  ...... 

.  165 

Caistor  Castle  ..... 

.  165 

Scene  on  the  Fens  .... 

.  166 

Whittlesea  Mere  as  it  is  . 

.  167 

Cutting  Reeds  in  the  Fens 

.  168 

Southey’s  Grave  .... 

.  168 

Holm  Lode  (in  the  Fen  Country) 

.  169 

Skating  in  the  Fens. 

.  170 

Stalking  Sledge . 

.  171 

ROUND  ABOUT 

SOME 

The  Black  Country  and  Dudley  Castle 

.  180 

Kirkstall  Abbey  .... 

.  181 

The  Wharfe.  ..... 

.  182 

A  Yorkshire  Dale  . 

.  183 

Fountains  Abbey  .... 

.  184 

Wycliffe  Church  .... 

.  185 

THE 

ISLE 

The  Needles  ..... 

.  190 

Scratcliell’s  Bay  .... 

.  191 

Carisbrooke  Castle  .... 

.  191 

Whippingliam  Church 

.  192 

SNOWDONIA 

Menai  Bridge  ..... 

.  195 

Snowdon  ...... 

.  196 

Pont  Aberglaslyn.  .... 

.  197 

Bettws-y-Coed.  .... 

.  198 

Water-fall  near  Cape!  Curig 

.  199 

The  Fairies’  Glen,  Bettws-y-Coed  . 

.  200 

The  Moors  above  Bettws-y-Coed 

.  201 

Walsingham  Abbey.  .  .  =  page  172 

Crowland  in  Winter  .....  173 

Crowland  Abbey  and.  Church .  .  .  174 
Snuff  Tower.  ......  175 

Norwich,  from  tlie  Meadows  .  .  .  176 
Ethelbert  Gate,  Norwich  ....  177 

Yarmouth  Tollhouse,  and  entrance  to  the 

Old  Gaol . 177 

Sandringham  .  .  .  .  .  .178 
Church  of  St.  Nicholas,  Yarmouth  .  .  179 

INDUSTRIAL  CENTERS. 

In  the  Cheviot  Hills  .....  186 
Roman  Wall  .  .  187 

Section  of  Roman  Wall  ....  187 
Warkworth  Castle  .....  188 

Dunstanborough  Castle,  Northumberland  189 
Grace  Darling’s  Tomb  ....  189 


OF  WIGHT. 

Shanklin  Chine. 

Arreton  Church  .... 
Brading  Church  .  . 

The  Solent,  with  Netlev  Hospital 

AND  WALES. 

Conway  Castle 

Craig-y-Dinas  .... 
Lady’s  Fall  .... 
The  Cilhepste  Fall 
Gateway  of  Manorbeer  Castle. 
Storm  on  the  Welsh  Coast. 


193 

194 
194 
194 


202 

203 

203 

204 

205 

206 


FIRST  AND  LAST  HOUSE,  LAND’S  END. 


% 


CAYEESHAM. 


‘  My  eye,  descending  from  the  hill,  surveys 
Where  Thames  among  the  wanton  valleys  strays. 

Thames,  the  most  loved  of  all  the  Ocean’s  sons, 

By  his  old  sire,  to  his  embraces  runs, 

Hasting  to  pay  his  tribute  to  the  sea, 

Like  mortal  life  to  meet  eternity.’ 

Sir  John  Denham  :  Cooper  s  Hill,  lines  159-164. 


I 


THAMES  HEAD  AND  HOAR  STONE. 


THE  RIVER  THAMES. 


THE  SEVEN  SPRINGS. 


THE  Thames,  unrivaled  among  Eng¬ 
lish  rivers  in  beauty  as  in  fame,  is 
really  little  known  even  by  English¬ 
men.  Of  the  millions  who  line  its  banks, 
few  have  any  acquaintance  with  its 
higher  streams,  or  know  them  further 
than  by  occasional  glances  through  rail¬ 
way  carriage  windows,  at  Maidenhead, 
Reading:,  PangTourne,  or  between  Abingf- 
don  and  Oxford.  Multitudes,  even,  who 
love  the  Oxford  waters,  and  are  familiar 
with  every  turn  of  the  banks  between 
Folly  Bridge  and  Nuneham,  have  never 
sought  to  explore  the  scenes  of  surpass¬ 
ing  beauty  where  the  river  flows  on, 
almost  in  loneliness,  in  its  descent  to 
London  ;  visited  by  few,  save  by  those 
happy  travelers  who,  with  boat  and  tent, 
pleasant  companionship,  and  well-chosen 
books — Izaak  Walton’s  Angler  among 


the  rest — pass  leisurely  from  reach  to 
reach  of  the  silver  stream.  Then  higher 
up  than  Oxford,  who  knows  the  Thames? 


Who  can  even  tell  where  it  arises,  and  through  what  district  it  flows? 

There  is  a  vague  belief  in  many  minds,  fostered  by  some  ancient  manuals  of 
geography,  that  the  Thames  is  originally  the  Isis,  so  called  until  it  receives  the 
river  Thame,  the  auspicious  union  being  denoted  by  the  pluralizing  of  the  latter 


II 


THE  RIVER  THAMES. 


word.  The  whole  account  is  pure  invention.  No  doubt  the  great  river  does 
receive  the  Thame  or  Tame,  near  Wallingford  ;  but  a  Tame  is  also  tributary  to 
the  Trent;  and  there  is  a  Teme  among  the  affluents  of  the  Severn.  The  truth 
appears  to  be  that  Teme,  Tame,  or  Thame,  is  an  old  Keltic  word  meaning  ‘smooth,’ 
or  ‘broad’;  and  that  Tamesis,  of  which  Thames  is  merely  a  contraction,  is  formed 
by  the  addition  to  this  root  of  the  old  ‘  Es,’  water,  so  familiar  to  us  in  ‘  Ouse,’1  ‘  Esk,’ 
‘  Uiske,’  ‘  Exe,’  so  that  Tam-es  means  simply  the  ‘broad  water,’  and  is  Latinized 
into  Tamesis.  The  last  two  syllables  again  of  this  word  are  fancifully  changed  into 
Isis,  which  is  thus  taken  as  a  poetic  appellation  of  the  river.  In  point  of  fact,  Isis  is 
used  only  by  the  poets,  or  by  those  who  affect  poetic  diction.  Thus  Wharton  in  his 
address  to  Oxford  : 

‘  Lo,  your  loved  Isis,  from  the  bordering  vale, 

With  all  a  mother’s  fondness  bids  you  hail.’ 

The  name,  then,  of  the  Thames  is  singular,  not  plural  ;  while  yet  the  river  is 
formed  by  many  confluent  streams  descending  from  the  Cotswold  Hills.  Which  is 
the  actual  source  is  perhaps  a  question  of  words  ;  and  yet  it  is  one  as  keenly  con¬ 
tended,  and  by  as  many  competing 
localities,  as  the  birthplace  of  Homer 
was  of  old.  Of  the  seven,  however, 
only  two  can  show  a  plausible  case. 
The  traditional  ‘  Thames  Head  ’  is  in 
Trewsbury  Mead,  three  miles  from 
Cirencester.  This  Trewsbury  Mead, 
the  guide-books  say,  is  ‘  not  far  from 
Tetbury  Road  Station  ’  on  the  Great 
Western  Railway.  The  fact  is,  that 
there  is  now  no  ‘  Tetbury  Road  Station  ’ 
for  passengers  ;  the  traffic  of  antique 
little  Tetbury  having  been  transferred 
to  Kemble,  the  junction  which  also 
serves  Cirencester.  There  are  two  ways  of  reaching  the  infant  Thames.  One  is 
from  Kemble,  where  a  short  stroll  through  pleasant  meadows  brings  the  pedestrian 
to  the  river,  covered — when  we  saw  it  on  a  bright  day  in  early  summer — with  the 
leaves  and  blossoms  of  the  water  ranunculus  ;  while  a  board  affixed  to  a  tree  upon 
the  bank,  threatening  penalties  to  unauthorized  anglers,  suggested  that  already  the 
Thames  had  won  its  character  as  a  fishing  stream.  Not  far  off,  a  by-path  from  a 
main  road  near  a  great  railway-arch  is  carried  across  the  river  by  the  first  Thames 
bridge ,  a  modest  affair  of  three  arches,  on  which  the  tourist,  if  disposed  to  a  contem¬ 
plation  of  contrasts,  may  stand  and  think  of  the  last  bridge  that  spans  the  stream, 
the  wonderful  structure  by  the  Tower  of  London. 

Should  the  visitor  follow  the  course  of  the  dwindling-  stream  though  the  mea- 
dows,  he  will  by-and-by  find  himself  near  the  high  embankment  of  the  Thames  and 
Severn  Canal,  in  its  day  a  work  of  great  enterprise  and  utility,  and  still  occasionally 
used  as  a  link  between  the  two  famous  rivers.  But  he  will  do  better  to  return  to 
the  junction  and  proceed  to  Cirencester: 

‘Our  town  of  Cicester  in  Gloucestershire,’ 

1  ‘  The  Ouse,  whom  men  do  Isis  rightly  name.’ — Spenser,  Faerie  Queene. 


THE  FIRST  BRIDGE  OVER  THE  THAMES. 


12 


THE  RIVER  THAMES. 


as  Shakspere  has  it,  in  the  last  act  of  King  Richard  the  Second ,  so  perpetuating  a 
local  pronunciation  rapidly  falling  into  disuse.  The  town  itself,  among  its  verdant 
rolling  uplands,  is  worth  a  day’s  visit,  even  apart  from  its  association  with  the 
Thames.  Once,  perhaps  because  of  its  position  near  the  source  of  the  great  river, 
Cirencester  was  the  center  of  Roman  civilization  and  luxury  in  this  island.  To  the 
city  of  Corinium,  as  it  was  then  called,  from  the  ancient  British  name  Caer  Corin, 
four  of  the  chief  Roman  roads  converged  :  the  Fosse  Way  from  the  northeast,  Ake- 
man  Street  from  the  southwest,  and  Ermine  Street  intersecting  them  from  the 
southeast  and  northwest,  while  Icknield  Street  passed  at  a  little  distance  to  the  east. 
These  roads,  turned  into  good  English  turnpikes  (if  we  may  use  a  word  which  our 
successors  will  hardly  understand),  running  in  long,  straight  lines  through  the  undu¬ 
lating  landscape,  after  the  Roman  fashion,  are  still  a  prominent  feature  in  the  scene. 
Cirencester  itself  has  almost  lost  the  aspect  of  a  Roman  city,  save  in  some  green 
mounds,  revealing  to  an  antiquary’s  eye  the  ancient  earthworks,  and  still  occasion¬ 
ally  yielding  to  the  delver  pieces  of  pottery,  coins,  and  other  relics  ;  as  well  as  in 
the  'very  manifest  lines  of  a  considerable  amphitheater,  now  called  the  Bull  Ring. 
The  chief  Roman  remains  from  time  to  time  discovered  are  preserved  in  the  Cor¬ 
inium  Museum,  close  to  the  railway  station,  a  collection  well  catalogued  and  admir¬ 
ably  kept,  containing  statuettes,  pottery,  and  household  implements  of  all  kinds, 
vividly  illustrating  every  feature  of  Roman  provincial  life  in  Britain.  Two  remark¬ 
ably  fine  tesselated  pavements,  with  hunting  and  other  scenes,  disinterred  in  the 
center  of  the  town  about  forty  years  ago,  occupy  the  central  floor  of  the  museum, 
one  of  them  having  unfortunately  been  much  injured  in  removal.  The  sculptor 
Westmacott  says  of  them  :  4  Here  is  grandeur  of  form,  dignity  of  character,  and 
great  breadth  of  treatment,  which  strongly  reminds  one  of  the  finest  Greek  schools.’ 

A  three  or  four  miles’  drive  along  the  old  Akeman  Street  takes  the  visitor  to  a 
point  in  the  road  where  the  high  embankment  of  the  canal  comes  into  full  view, 
crossing  the  meadows  on  the  left.  On  the  right,  the  church  tower  of  Coates  (the 
name  being,  no  doubt,  connected  with  Cotswold )  is  seen  among  the  trees.  Here,  we 
are  told,  rises  the  Thames.  But  where?  A  peasant  appears  from  a  roadside  cot¬ 
tage  to  explain.  ‘  People  come  here,’  he  says,  ‘  in  the  summer,  when  there  is  no  wa¬ 
ter,  and  go  away  saying  there  is  naught  to  see.  They  should  come  in  the  winter,  and 
see  how  these  meadows  are  all  flooded!’  The  fact  is,  that  the  traditional  source 
of  the  Thames  is  in  a  deep  spring,  below  a  mound  covered  with  trees  and  brush¬ 
wood,  and  with  the  stones  of  a  ruined  well.  In  summer  weather  no  water  comes  to 
the  surface,  in  rainy  seasons  and  in  winter  it  often  breaks  forth  and  dispreads  itself 
over  the  meadows  before  it  finds  any  regular  channel.  In  fact,  the  first  sign  of  the 
existence  of  any  spring  whatever,  when  we  visited  the  spot,  was  in  a  pumping- 
engine  on  the  towing-path  of  the  embankment,  some  three-quarters  of  a  mile  from 
‘  Thames  Head,’  which  was  in  full  activity,  raising  water  from  the  deep  under¬ 
ground  store  to  supply  the  canal.  The  water  appeared  of  crystal  purity  as  it  welled 
forth  from  the  ugly  little  engine-house  in  continual  ripples  on  the  dull  and  weedy 
stream.  This  novel  illustration  of  ‘infant  labor’  was  almost  a  painful  one  ;  at  any 
rate  it  formed  an  impressive  comment  on  the  reported  saying  of  Brindley  the 
engineer,  that  4  the  great  use  of  rivers  is  to  feed  canals.’  Half-a-mile  farther  down, 
when  clear  of  the  pumping-engine,  the  baby  river  issues  again  to  light,  and  wanders 
at  its  own  sweet  will,  where  we  met  it  in  our  walk  from  Kemble.  The  cut  at  the 


13 


THE  RIVER  THAMES. 


head  of  this  chapter  delineates  its  early  course,  and  shows  ‘  the  Hoar  Stone,’ an 
ancient  boundary,  mentioned  in  a  charter  of  King  Htthelstan,  a.d.  931. 

As  we  have  already  hinted,  however,  there  is  another  claimant  to  the  honor  of 
being  the  source  of  the  Thames,  in  the  ‘  Seven  Springs’  at  Cubberley,  near  Chelten¬ 
ham,  ten  miles  higher  up  than  Coates.  The  question  is  one  rather  of  words  than  of 
hydrography  ;  and  certainly  the  appellation  of  the  Thames  in  old  charters,  as  well 
as  the  immemorial  names  of  lands  adjacent  to  Coates,  as  ‘  Thames  Meadow,’ 
*  Thames  Furlong,’  and  the  like,  seem  to  show  that  this  is  the  recognized  fountain¬ 
head  of  the  river.  On  the  other  hand,  the  stream  that  rises  at  Cubberley  is  on 
higher  ground  and  farther  from  the  mouth  of  the  river.  Only,  it  is  called  ‘  the 
Churn.’  It  also  runs  southwards  to  Cirencester;  and  at  Lechlade,  ten  miles  farther 
on,  the  two  unite. 

Whether  ‘the  Churn’  be  the  true  Thames  or  not,  the  drive  from  Cheltenham 
to  the  Seven  Springs  is  not  one  to  be  neglected  by  any  tourist  who  may  be  so 
fortunate  as  to  find  himself  in  that  town  of  leafy  trees  and  fair  gardens  on  a  bright 
day  in  early  summer.  The  longer  but  the  finer  road  sweeps  round  the  magnificent 
escarpment  of  Leckhampton  Hill,  one  of  the  finest  points  of  view  in  the  Cotswolds. 
Here,  beneath  the  crest  of  the  hill,  the  tourist  is  sure  to  have  his  attention  called  to 
an  irregular  column  or  pile  of  rocks,  called  from  time  immemorial  the  Devil’s 
Chimney.  It  has  probably  been  separated  from  the  oolitic  mass  by  the  action  of  wa¬ 
ter  washing  away  the  softer  and  more  friable  parts  of  the  rock.  The  impression  can 
scarcely  be  resisted  that,  in  the  broken  line  of  the  Cotswolds  along  this  route,  there 
is  a  pre-historic  line  of  cliffs,  the  boundary  of  a  vast  channel,  with  its  bays  and  head¬ 
lands,  what  is  now  the  valley  of  the  Severn  having  been  an  arm  of  the  sea,  and  the 
Malvern  Hills  being  heights  upon  the  opposite  shore.  This  hill  should  be  climbed, 
if  the  visitor  can  climb  at  all,  for  the  sake  of  the  glorious  outspread  landscape, 
embracing  the  Yale  of  the  Severn,  the  Forest  of  Dean,  and  the  Malvern  Hills  ; 
while  the  contrast  between  the  bare  crags  in  the  foreground  and  the  splendid  luxu¬ 
riance  of  the  valleys  is  a  feast  of  color  to  the  eye.  But  as  the  main  object  is  to 
find  the  ‘  Seven  Springs,’  the  road  must  be  pursued  a  little  farther,  when  suddenly 
they  appear  by  the  wayside — a  small  pond  under  a  bank  by  the  wall,  over  which 
are  two  twisted  ash  trees ;  while  in  ceaseless  trickle  rather  than  in  full  stream  the 
k  seven  ’  tiny  cataracts  descend  from  the  bank.  In  the  wall  is  a  tablet  with  the 
hexameter  inscription  : 

‘  Hie  tuus,  O  Tamesine  Pater,  septemgeminus  fons.’ 

(Here,  O  Father  Thames,  is  thy  sevenfold  source  !) 

Beyond  the  wall  there  is  a  view  of  what  appears  a  pleasure-ground,  where  the 
stream  from  the  Springs  expands  into  a  little  lake  before  descending  into  the  valley. 
On  the  lake  we  discerned  a  solitary  white  swan  floating;  and,  altogether,  one 
could  not  help  thinking  that — Cirencester  traditions  notwithstanding — this  ought  to 
be  the  source  of  the  river.  Our  driver  had  been  careful  to  warn  us  not  to  be  dis- 
‘appointed  :  ‘  people  generally  were.’  ‘  Is  that  all  ?  ’  they  would  say;  *  drive  back  to 
Cheltenham  !’  But  to  us  the  scene  appeared  very  characteristic  and  lovely,  and,  so 
far  as  our  verdict  might  go,  we  were  ready  to  identify  the  Churn  with  Father 
Thames.  Nay,  there  is  some  local  ground  for  this  conclusion,  quite  apart  from  the 
hexameter,  and  much  earlier.  For  after  all  Churn  is  probably  Covin?  and  Corin  in 

1  Some,  however,  identify  the  word  with  the  Keltic  Chivyrn,  1  swift  ’  or  ‘  nimble.’ 


14 


WINDSOR 


THE  RIVER  THAMES. 


Keltic  is  Summit.  Cirencester  itself  is  Corin-cester,  ‘  the  camp  of  the  Summit/ and 
here  is  the  Summit  itself ! 

At  the  little  market-town  of  Cricklade  the  two  streams  unite  their  force,  which 
is  still  inconsiderable  ;  and  from  this  point  the  river  flows  onwards,  through  rich 
meadows  and  beside  quiet  villages  :  much,  to  say  the  truth,  like  other  rivers,  or  dis¬ 
tinguished  only  by  the  transparency  of  its  gentle  stream.  For,  issuing  from  a  broad 
surface  of  oolite  rock,  it  has  brought  no  mountain  debris  or  dull  clay  to  sully  its 
brightness,  no  town  defilement,  nor  trace  of  higher  rapids  in  turbid  waves  and 
hurrying  foam.  It  lingers  amid  quiet  beauties,  scarcely  veiling  from  sight  the  rich 
herbarium  which  it  fosters  in  its  bed,  save  where  the  shadows  of  trees  reflected  in 
the  calm  water  mingle  confusedly  with  the  forms  of  aquatic  plants.  Meanwhile 
other  streams  swell  the  current.  As  an  unknown  poet  somewhat  loftily  sings  : 

‘From  various  springs  divided  waters  glide, 

In  different  colors  roll  a  different  tide  ; 

Murmur  along  their  crooked  banks  awhile  : — 

At  once  they  murmur,  and  enrich  the  isle, 

Awhile  distinct,  through  many  channels  run. 

But  meet  at  last,  and  sweetly  flow  in  one 
Their  joy  to  lose  their  long  distinguished  names, 

And  make  one  glorious  and  immortal  Thames.’ 

Of  the  little  streams  thus  described,  the  most  important  are  the  Coin  and  the 
Leche  ;  as  Drayton  has  it  in  his  Polyolbion  : 

‘  Clere  Coin  and  lovely  Leche,  so  dun  from  Cotswold’s  plain.’ 

The  confluence  of  these  streams  with  the  Thames  and  Severn  Canal  at  Lech- 
lade  makes  the  river  navigable  for  barges  ;  and  from  this  point  it  sets  up  a  towing- 
path.  Below  Lechlade  it  passes  into  almost  perfect  solitude.  Few  walks  in  Eng¬ 
land  of  the  same  distance  are  at  once  so  quietly  interesting  and  so  utterly  lonely  as 
the  walk  along  the  grassy  towing-path  of  the  Thames.  A  constant  water-traffic  was 
once  maintained  between  London  and  Bristol  by  way  of  Lechlade  and  the  canal ; 
but  this  is  now  superseded  by  the  railway,  and  the  sight  of  a  passing  barge  is  rare. 
The  river  after  leaving  Gloucestershire  divides,  in  many  a  winding,  the  counties  of 
Oxford  and  Berks.  The  hills  of  the  latter  county,  with  their  wood-crowned 
summits,  pleasantly  bound  the  view  to  the  south  ;  Farringdon  Hill  being  for  a  long 
distance  conspicuous  among  them.  Half-way  between  Lechlade  and  Oxford  is  the 
hamlet  of  Siford,  or  Shiford — one  of  the  great  historic  spots  of  England,  if  rightly 
considered,  although  now  isolated  and  unknown.  For  there,  as  an  ancient  chron¬ 
icler  commemorates,  King  Alfred  the  Great  held  Parliament  a  thousand  years  ago. 

‘  There  sat  at  Siford  many  thanes  and  many  bishops, 

Learned  men,  proud  earls  and  awful  knights, 

There  was  Earl  yElfric,  learned  in  the  law, 

And  Alfred,  England’s  herdsman,  England’s  darling, 

He  was  King  in  England. 

He  began  to  teach  them  how  they  should  live.’ 

The  impression  which  the  first  sight  of  Oxford  makes  upon  the  stranger  is 
probably  unique,  in  whatever  direction  he  first  approaches  it,  and  from  whatever 
point  he  first  descries  its  spires  and  towers.  True,  of  late  years  the  acces- 


17 


THE  RIVER  THAMES. 


sories  of  the  railway  invasion,  so  long  resisted  by  the  University  authorities,  have 
given  a  new  aspect  to  the  scene  ;  but  nothing  can  quite  destroy  the  stately  dignity 
and  venerable  calm.  The  traveler  who  approaches  by  the  river  receives  the  full 
impression.  As  he  floats  along  the  quiet  stream,  the  stately  domes  and  towers  come 
suddenly  into  view,  and  the  green  railway  embankment  in  the  foreground  scarcely 
impairs  the  antique  beauty  of  the  picture. 

Oxford  is  probably  Ousenford — the  ford  over  the  Ouse  or  ‘Water.’  Its  waters 
indeed  are  many,  and  almost  labyrinthine  ;  but  we  get  clear  of  the  river  at  Hythe 
Bridge,  and  care  for  a  while  only  to  explore  Colleges,  Halls,  and  Libraries  ;  pausing 
before  the  Martyrs’  Memorial,  to  breathe  the  hope  that  ‘the  candle’  once  lighted 


LECHLADE. 

there  may  still  brightly  burn  ;  while  Keble  College,  farther  on,  is  a  memorial  of  one 
who,  though  of  another  school  of  thought  from  ourselves,  has  given  musical  and 
touching  expression  to  the  holiest  musings  of  devout  hearts.  But  to  describe  this 
Avonderful  city  is  beyond  our  present  scope.  Let  us  hurry  down  to  Christ  Church 
Meadows,  where  the  Cherwell  sweeps  round  to  join  the  Thames ;  then  across  to  the 
Broad  Walk,  past  Merton  Meadow  and  the  Botanical  Gardens,  to  Magdalen  Bridge, 
where  a  splendid  view  of  the  city  is  again  obtained  ;  thence  up  High  Street  to  the 
center  of  the  city,  and  down  St.  Aldate’s  Street  to  Folly  Bridge,  where  boats  of  all 
sizes  are  in  waiting.  This  bridge  may  appear  strangely  named,  as  a  main  approach 
to  the  renowned  seat  of  learning.  Various  stories  are  told  as  to  the  origin  of  the 
Perhaps  it  may  be  from  some  tradition  of  Roger  Bac^n,  who  had  his  study 
is 


name. 


THE  RIVER  THAMES. 


cind  laboratory  here,  over  the  ancient  gate.  There  was  a  saying  that  this  study 
would  fall  when  a  man  more  learned  than  Bacon  passed  under  it  ;  so  that  the  name 
may  be  an  uncomplimentary  reference  to  the  troops  of  students  entering  Oxford  by 
this  thoroughfare.  But  such  speculations  need  not  hinder  us.  We  are  bound  for 
London — a  voyage  of  some  1 1 5  miles,  though  only  52  by  rail.  Many  boatmen  will 
prefer  to  take  the  train  for  Goring,  saving  six-and-twenty  miles  of  water  traveling, 
and  avoiding  the  most  tedious  and  on  the  whole  least  picturesque  part  of  the 
journey.  Still,  in  any  case,  Nuneham  must  be  seen,  with  Iffley  Lock  and  Sandford 


THE  MARTYRS’  MEMORIAL,  OXFORD. 


Lasher — familiar  names  to  boating  men  ! — upon  the  way.  Nuneham  is  a  charming 
domain,  scene  of  picnic  parties  innumerable,  yet  freshly  beautiful  to  every  visitor 
who  can  enjoy  woodland  walks  and  verdant  slopes,  and  gardens,  planned  by  Mason 
the  poet,  in  which  art  and  taste  have,  as  it  were,  only  improved  upon  the  hints  and 
suggestions  of  Nature  ;  and  breezy  heights  from  which  the  prospect,  if  less  exten¬ 
sive  than  some  other  far-famed  English  views,  may  surely  vie  in  loveliness  with  any 
of  them.  The  intending  visitor  must  be  careful  to  ascertain  the  days  and  conditions 
of  access  to  the  ground  ;  and  in  his  ramble  must  be  sure  to  include  the  old  ‘  Carfax’ 
conduit,  removed  in  1787  from  the  ‘fourways’  (for  the  ‘Car’  is  evidently  qziatre. 


19 


THE  RIVER  THAMES. 

whatever  the  ‘  fax’  may  be)  in  Oxford,  and  set  on  a  commanding  eminence,  the  dis¬ 
tant  spires  and  towers  of  the  city,  with  Blenheim  Woods  in  the  background,  being 
seen  in  one  direction,  and  the  view  in  another  bounded  by  the  line  of  the  Chiltern 
Hills. 

When  the  oarsman  has  once  left  behind  the  wooded  slopes  of  Nuneham,  with 
the  overhanging  trees  reflected  in  the  silvery  waters,  he  will  find  the  way  to  Abing¬ 
don  monotonous.  He  will  perhaps  be  startled  by  seeing  picnic  parties  in  large 
boats,  towed  from  the  shore  by  stalwart  peasants  harnessed  to  the  rope.  Let  us 
hope  that  the  toil  is  easier  than  it  looks  !  On  the  whole,  we  do  not  recommend  the 
long  detour  by  Abingdon,  although  Clifton  Hampden  is  charming,  and  Dorchester, 
near  the  junction  of  the  Thame  and  the  Thames — once  a  Roman  camp,  afterwards 
the  see  of  the  first  Bishop  of  Wessex,  but  now  a  poor  village — is  well  worth  a  visit. 
It  is  startling  to  find  a  minster  in  a  hamlet.  Probably,  however,  the  antiqu’ary  may 
be  more  interested  in  the  remains  of  the  Whittenham  earthworks,  which  in  British  or 
Saxon  times  defended  the  meeting-point  of  the  rivers.  The  Thame  flows  in  on  the 

left.  On  the  hill  to  the  right  is- 
Sinodun,  a  remarkably  fine  British 
camp.  The  whole  neighborhood, 
so  still  and  peaceful  now,  tells  of 
bygone  greatness,  and  of  many  a 
struggle  of  which  the  records  have 
vanished  from  the  page  of  history. 
Not  far  from  Dorchester  in  an¬ 
other  direction  is  Chalgrove  Field, 
where  the  brave  and  patriotic 
Hampden  received  his  death- 
wound.  His  name,  and  that  of 
Falkland,  to  be  noticed  further  on, 
awaken  in  these  scenes,  now  so 
tranquil,  the  remembrance  of  the 
stormy  times  when  in  this  Thames  Valley  were  waged  those  conflicts  out  of  which  in 
so  large  a  measure  sprang  the  freedom  and  progress  of  modern  England. 

At  Dorchester  we  are  still  eleven  miles  by  water  from  Goring ;  and  while  the 
angler  may  loiter  down  the  stream,  we  must  hasten  on,  though  ancient  Wallingford 
and  rustic  Cleeve  are  not  unworthy  of  notice.  At  Goring  the  chief  beauties  of  the 
river  begin  to  disclose  themselves. 

Emerson  says  of  the  English  landscape,  that  ‘  it  seems  to  be  finished  with  the 
pencil  instead  of  the  plow.’  The  fields  are  cultivated  like  gardens.  Neat,  trim 
hedgerows,  picturesque  villages,  spires  peeping  from  among  groves  of  trees,  cottages 
gay  with  flowers  and  evergreens,  suggest  that  the  landscape  gardener  rather  than 
the  agriculturist  has  been  everywhere  at  work.  If  this  be  true  of  England  as  a 
whole,  it  is  yet  more  strikingly  true  of  the  district  through  which  we  are  about  to 
pass.  A  thousand  years  of  peaceful  industry  have  subdued  the  wildness  of  Nature  ; 
and  the  river  glides  between  banks  radiant  with  beauty  :  ‘  The  little  hills  rejoice  on 
every  side  ;  the  pastures  are  clothed  with  flocks,  the  valleys  are  covered  over  with 
corn  ;  they  shout  for  joy,  they  also  sing.’ 

Yet  there  is  no  lack  of  variety.  The  course  of  the  river  is  broken  up  by 


LANDING-PLACE,  NUNEHAM. 


20 


THE  RIVER  THAMES. 


innumerable  ‘aits’  (‘eyots’),  or  little  islands;  some  covered  with  trees  which  dip 
their  branches  into  the  stream,  others  with  reeds  and  osier,  the  haunts  of  wild  fowl ; 
on  others,  again,  a  cottage 
or  a  summer-house  peeps 
out  from  amongst  the  foli- 
age.  Sometimes  these  aits 
seem  to  block  up  the  chan¬ 
nel,  and  leave  no  exit,  so 
that  the  boat  seems  to  be 
afloat  on  a  tiny  lake,  till  a 
stroke  or  two  of  the  oar  dis¬ 
closes  a  narrow  passage  into 
the  stream  beyond.  Some¬ 
times  a  line  of  chalk-down 
bounds  the  view,  its  deli¬ 
cately  curved  sides  dotted 
over  with  juniper  bushes,  the 
dark  green  of  which  con¬ 
trasts  finely  with  the  light 
gray  of  the  turf.  Then 
appears  a  range  of  hanging 
beech-wood  coming:  down  to 
the  water’s  edge,  or  a  broad 
expanse  of  meadow,  where 
the  cattle  wade  knee-deep 
in  grass,  or  a  mansion  whose 
grounds  have  been  trans¬ 
formed  into  a  paradise  by 
lavish  expenditure  and  fine 
taste,  or  a  village,  the  rustic 
beauty  of  which  might  realize 
the  dreams  of  poet  or  of 
painter.  The  locks,  mill- 
dams,  or  weirs  with  their 
dashing  waters,  give  anima¬ 
tion  to  the  scene.  Nor  is 
that  additional  charm  often 
wanting  of  which  Dr.  John¬ 
son  used  to  speak.  ‘  The 
finest  landscape  in  the  world,’ 
he  would  say,  ‘  is  improved 
by  a  good  inn  in  the  fore¬ 
ground.’  True,  there  are 
no  great  hotels,  after  the 
modern  fashion  ;  but  a  series 
of  comfortable,  homely  village  inns  will  be  found,  such  as  Izaak  Walton  loved, 
and  which  are  still  favorite  haunts  with  the  brethren  of  1  the  gentle  craft.' 


21 


HENLEY-ON-THAMES. 


THE  RIVER  THAMES. 


The  landlord,  learned  in  all  anglers’  lore,  is  delighted  to  show  where  the  big  pike 
lies  in  a  sedgy  pool,  where  the  perch  will  bite  most  freely,  or  to  suggest  the  most 
killing  fly  to  cast  for  trout  over  the  mill-pond  ;  and  is  not  too  proud,  when  the  day’s 
task  is  done,  to  wait  upon  the  oarsman  or  the  angler  at  his  evening  meal. 

To  describe  in  detail  all  the  points  of  beauty  that  lie  before  us  would  require 
far  more  space  than  we  have  at  disposal  ;  and  a  dry  catalogue  of  names  would 
interest  no  one.  We  have  started,  as  said  before,  from  Goring,  where  the  twin  vil¬ 
lage  Streatley — bearing  in  its  name  a  reminiscence  of  the  old  Roman  road  Icknield 
Street — nestles  at  the  foot  of  its  romantic  wooded  hill.  The  comfort  of  the  little 
hostelry  and  the  charm  of  the  scenery  invite  a  longer  stay,  but  we  must  press  on. 
Pangbourne  and  Whitchurch,  also  twin  villages,  joined  by  a  pretty  wooden  bridge, 
once  more  invite  delay.  On  the  right,  the  little  river  Pang  flows  in  between  green 
hills;  on  the  left,  or  the  Whitchurch  side,  heights  clothed  with  the  richest  foliage 
shut  in  the  scene.  The  cottages  are  embosomed  amid  the  trees  ;  the  clear  river 
catches  a  thousand  reflections  from  hillside  and  sky  ;  the  waters  of  the  weir  dash 
merrily  down  ;  and  the  fishermen,  each  in  his  punt  moored  near  midstream,  yielding 

themselves  to  the  tranquil  delight 
of  the  perfect  scene,  are  further 
gladdened  by  many  an  encouraging 
nibble.  Surely  of  all  amusements 
the  most  restful  is  fishing  from  a 
punt !  Most  persons  would  find  a 
day  of  absolute  idleness  intoler¬ 
able.  But  here  we  have  just  that 
measure  of  expectation  and  ex¬ 
citement  which  enable  even  a  busy 
and  active  man  to  sit  all  day  doing 
nothing.  Into  the  question  of  the 
cruelty  of  the  sport  we  do  not 
enter;  but  its  soothing,  tranquil¬ 
lizing  character  cannot  be  denied. 
For  ourselves,  our  business  is  not 
to  angle,  but  to  observe.  As  we  row  past  these  grave  and  solemn  men,  absorbed 
in  the  endeavor  to  hook  a  dace  or  gudgeon,  and  recognize  among  them  one  or 
two  of  the  hardest  workers  in  London,  we  feel,  at  any  rate,  that  the  familiar  sneer 
about  ‘a  rod  with  a  line  at  one  end,  and  a  fool  at  the  other,’  may  not  be  alto¬ 
gether  just.1 

1  As  we  write,  the  following  letter  to  the  Times  arrests  our  attention  ;  it  is  too  graphic,  as  well  as  accurate,  to  be  lost : 

*  I  will  not  tell  you  where  I  am,  except  that  I  am  staying  at  an  hotel  on  the  banks  of  the  River  Thames.  I  hesitate  to 
name  the  place,  charming  as  it  is,  because  I  am  sure,  when  its  beauties  are  known,  it  will  be  hopelessly  vulgarized.  Mine  host, 
the  pleasantest  of  landlords,  his  wife,  the  most  agreeable  of  her  sex,  will  charge,  too,  in  proportion  as  the  plutocracy  invade  us. 

I  am  surrounded  by  the  most  charming  scenery.  Few  know,  and  still  fewer  appreciate,  the  beauties  of  our  own  River  Thames. 

I  have  been  up  and  down  the  Rhine  ;  but  I  confess,  taking  all  in  all,  Oxford  to  Gravesend  pleases  me  more.  Here,  in  addition 
to  what  I  have  described,  I  am  on  the  river’s  brink  ;  I  can  row  about  to  my  heart’s  content  for  a  very  moderate  figure  ;  excel¬ 
lent  fishing  ;  newspapers  to  be  procured,  and  postal  arrangements  of  a  character  not  to  worry  you,  and  yet  sufficient  to  keep  you 
an  fait  with  your  business  arrangements.  What  do  I  want  more  ?  Prices  are  moderate,  the  village  contains  houses  suitable  to 
all  classes,  and  the  inhabitants  are  pleased  to  see  you.  I  can  wear  flannels  without  being  stared  at,  and  I  can  see  the  opposite 
sex,  in  the  most  bewitching  and  fascinating  of  costumes,  rowing  about  (with  satisfaction,  too)  the  so-called  lords  of  creation.  As 
for  children,  there  is  no  end  of  amusement  for  them — dabbling  in  the  water,  feeding  the  swans,  the  fields,  and  the  safety  of  2 
punt.  We  have  both  aristocratic  and  well-to-do  people  here — names  well  known  in  town  ;  but  I  must  not,  nor  will  I,  betrcv 


12 


WOODS  AND  RIVER  ;  CLIEFDEN' 


THE  RIVER  THAMES. 


Passing  a  series  of  verdant  lawns,  sloping  to  the  river’s  brink,  we  reach  Maple- 
durham  and  Purley,  on  opposite  sides  of  the  river  at  one  of  its  most  exquisite 
bends.  The  former  place  is  celebrated  by  Pope  as  the  retreat  of  his  ladye-love 
Martha  Blount,  when 

‘  She  went  to  plain-work,  and  to  purling  brooks, 

Old-fashioned  halls,  dull  aunts,  and  croaking  rooks.’ 

The  latter  was  the  residence  of  Warren  Hastings  during  his  trial,  and  is  not  to  be 
•confounded  with  the  Purley  in  Surrey,  where  Horne  Tooke  wrote  his  celebrated 
Diversions,  on  the  origin  and  history  of  words. 

The  next  halting-place  is  Caversham,  sometimes  magniloquently  described  as 
4  the  port  of  Reading.’  Here  the  Thames  widens  out,  as  shown  in  the  view  which 
prefaces  the  present  chapter  ;  the  eel-traps,  or  ‘  bucks,’  extending  half  across  the 
river.  A  little  lower  down,  the  Rennet,  ‘  for  silver  eels  renowned,’  as  Pope  has  it, 
flows  in  from  the  southwest,  with  its  memories  of  the  high-minded  and  chivalrous 
Falkland,  who  fell  at  the  battle  of  Newbury,  on  the  banks  of  this  river.  Then  the 
Loddon  enters  the  Thames  from  the  south,  between  Shiplake  and  Wargrave.  The 
picturesque  churches  of  these  two  villages  are  soon  passed,  and  we  enter  the  fine 
•expanse  of  Henley  Reach,  famous  in  boat-racing  annals.  Here  for  many  years  the 
University  matches  were  rowed  before  their  removal  to  Putney.  No  sheet  of  water 
could  be  better  suited  to  the  purpose,  and  the  change  is  regretted  by  many  boat- 
ingr-men. 

We  are  now  approaching  the  point  at  which  the  beauty  of  the  river  culminates. 
From  Marlow,  past  Cookham,  Hedsor  and  Cliefden,  to  Maidenhead,  a  distance  of 
•eight  or  ten  miles,  we  gladly  suspend  the  labor  of  the  oar,  and  let  the  boat  drift 
slowly  with  the  stream.  As  we  glide  along,  even  this  gentle  motion  is  too  rapid, 
and  we  linger  on  the  way  to  feast  our  eyes  upon  the  infinitely  varied  combination 
of  chalk  cliff  and  swelling  hill  and  luxuriant  foliage  which  every  turn  of  the  river 
brings  to  view  : 

‘Woods,  meadows,  hamlets,  farms, 

Spires  in  the  vale  and  towers  upon  the  hills  ; 

The  great  chalk  quarries  glaring  through  the  shade, 

The  pleasant  lanes  and  hedgerows,  and  those  homes 
Which  seemed  the  very  dwellings  of  content 
And  peace  and  sunshine.’  1 

The  ‘castled  crags’  of  the  Rhine  and  the  Moselle, — the  ‘blue  rushing  of  the 
arrowy  Rhone,’ — the  massive  grandeur  of  the  banks  of  the  Danube,  are  far  more 
imposing  and  stimulating  ;  but  the  quiet,  tranquil  loveliness  of  this  part  of  the 
Thames  may  make  good  its  claim  to  take  rank  even  with  those  world-famed  rivers. 
There  is  something  both  unique  and  charming  in  the  dry  ‘  combes,’ or  fissures  in 
the  chalk  ranges,  rapidly  descending  and  garnished  with  sweeping  foliage  of 
untrimmed  beech  trees.  The  branches  gracefully  bend  down  to  the  slope  of  the 
rising  sward  ;  while,  from  the  steepness  of  the  angle,  the  tree-tops  appear  from 

them.  On  the  towing-path  this  morning  was  to  be  seen  the  smartest  of  our  judges  in  a  straw  hat  and  a  tourist  suit,  equally 
becoming  to  him  as  it  was  well  cut. 

*  Let  me  advise  all  your  readers  who  are  hesitating  where  to  go  not  to  overlook  the  natural  beauties  of  our  River  Thames. 
There  are  one  or  two  steamers  that  make  the  journey  up  and  down  the  river  in  three  days,  stopping  at  various  places,  and  giving 
ample  opportunity  for  passengers  both  to  see  and  appreciate  the  scenery.  ‘  E.  C.  W.’ 

1  Down  Stream  to  London.  By  the  Rev.  S.  J.  Stone. 


25 


THE  RIVER  THAMES. 


below  as  a  succession  of  pinnacles  against  the  sky.  Many  a  roamer  through  dis¬ 
tant  lands  has  come  home  to  give  the  palm  for  the  perfection  of  natural  beauty  to 
the  rocks  and  hanging  woods  of  Cliefden.  That  they  are  within  an  hour’s  run  of 
London  does  not  indeed  abate  their  claim  to  admiration,  but  may  suggest  the  rea¬ 
son  why  they  are  so  comparatively  little  known. 

Maidenhead  is  on  the  other  side  of  the  river  ;  Taplow  opposite.  The  bridge 
between  them — one  of  Brunei’s  works — will  be  noted  for  its  enormous  span  ;  its 
elliptical  brick  arches  being,  it  is  said,  the  widest  of  the  kind  in  the  world.  From 
this  point,  if  the  beauty  decreases,  the  historical  interest  becomes  greater  at  every 
turn.  First  we  pass  the  village  and  church  of  Bray.  The  scenery  here  is  of  little 
interest ;  but  it  is  impossible  not  to  give  a  thought  to  ‘  the  Vicar,’  Symond  Sym- 
onds,  commemorated  in  song.  Let  it  be  noted,  however,  that  the  lyrist  has  used  a 
poetic  license  in  his  dates.  The  historian,  Thomas  Fuller,  tells  the  story  :  ‘  The 
vivacious  vicar,  living  under  King  Henry  VIII.,  Edward  VI.,  Queen  Mary,  and 
Queen  Elizabeth,  was  first  a  Papist,  then  a  Protestant,  then  a  Papist,  then  a  Protes¬ 
tant  again.  He  had  seen  some 
martyrs  burnt  (two  miles  off) 
at  Windsor,  and  found  this  fire 
too  hot  for  his  tender  temper. 
The  vicar  being  taxed  by  one 
for  being  a  turncoat  and  incon- 
stant  changeling  ;  “  Not  so,” 

said  he,  “  for  I  always  keep  my 
principle,  which  is  this — to  live 
and  to  die  the  Vicar  of  Bray.”  ’ 
The  type  is  but  too  true  to 
human  nature,  and  not  only  in 
matters  ecclesiastical.  But  in¬ 
stead  of  staying  to  moralize, 
we  will  notice  with  interest  that 
in  this  church  is  preserved  an 
ancient  copy  of  Fox’s  Book  of 
Martyrs,  chained  to  the  reading-desk,  as  in  the  days  of  Queen  Elizabeth.  It  is 
better  to  be  reminded  of  ‘  the  faith  and  patience  of  the  saints,’  than  of  the  light 
convictions  and  the  easy  apostasy  of  politic  ‘  believers  ’ ;  and  so  the  old  church  at 
Bray  has  taught  us  a  refreshing  and  unexpected  lesson. 

Soon  the  towers  of  Windsor  are  seen  rising  above  the  trees ;  then  Eton  College 
comes  into  view,  with  its 

‘  distant  spires,  antique  towers 
That  crown  the  watery  glade.’ 

Perhaps  the  best  view  of  the  castle  from  the  Thames  is  that  from  a  point  just 
beyond  the  Great  Western  Railway  bridge.  When  the  Queen  is  absent,  access  to 
the  state  apartments  is  liberally  permitted.  St.  George’s  Chapel,  built  by  Edward 
IV.,  is  the  finest  existing  specimen  of  the  architecture  of  that  period  ;  and  the  view 
from  the  North  Terrace,  constructed  by  Queen  Elizabeth,  is  perhaps  the  most 
beautiful  on  the  River  Thames. 

A  little  lower  down,  and  we  are  passing  between  Runnimede  (‘  Meadow  of 

26 


ETON  FROM  THE  RIVER. 


THE  RIVER  THAMES. 


Council  ’),  where  the  barons  camped,  and  Magna  Charta  Island,  where  the  great 
charter  of  English  liberty  was  signed  ;  and  a  temporary  struggle  between  kings  and 
nobles  laid  the  broad  foundations  of  English  freedom.  As  we  sweep  round  the 
bend  beneath  the  broad  meadow  and  the  wooded  Isle,  ‘while  we  muse  the  fire 
burneth,’ — the  ardor  of  grateful  love  to  Him  who  has  shaped  the  destinies  of  our 
beloved  land,  and  has  never  from  that  hour  withdrawn  the  trust  then  committed  to 
the  nation,  of  being  the  guardians  and  pioneers  of  the  world’s  freedom.  A  multi¬ 
tude  of  thoughts  and  questionings  throng  in  upon  us,  but  we  must  not  lose  the 
opportunity  of  impressing  on  our  memory  the  outward  features  of  the  scene.  There 
is  not  much  to  see  :  if  there  be  time  to  land  upon  the  island,  it  will  be  as  well  to  do 
so,  and  to  enter  the  pretty  modern  cottage  there  erected,  containing  the  very  stone — 
if  tradition  is  to  be  believed — on  which  the  Charter  was  laid  for  the  royal  signature. 

From  Runnimede  it  is  but  an  easy  climb  to  the  brow  of  Cooper’s  Hill,  with 
its  far-famed  view  of  the  river, 
of  Windsor,  and  its  woods.  Dr. 

Johnson  speaks  of  Sir  John  Den¬ 
ham’s  poem,  of  which  we  have 
taken  some  lines  as  the  motto  to 
this  chapter,  as  ‘the  first  English 
specimen  of  local  poetry.’  Its 
subject,  as  well  as  its  style,  will 
preserve  it  from  the  oblivion  to 
which  the  greater  number  of  the 
poet’s  works  have  descended. 

Another  Coin  falls  into  the 
river,  to  the  left,  a  little  farther 
on — suggestive,  in  its  name,  of  the 
Roman  occupation;  the  ‘street’ 
to  the  west  here  crossing  the 
Thames  by  a  bridge.  ‘  London 
Stone,’  a  few  hundred  yards  lower 
down,  marks  the  entrance  into 
Middlesex;  then  clean  and  quiet 
Staines — ‘  Stones,’  so  termed,  per¬ 
haps,  from  the  piers  of  the  old 
Roman  bridge,  or,  it  may  be,  from 
the  London  Stone  itself,  comes  into  view  :  but  if  the  traveler  has  time  to  spare,  he 
will  rather  pause  at  Laleham,  so  well  known  to  every  Christian  educator  as  the 
earliest  scene  of  Arnold’s  labors. 

‘  The  first  reception  of  the  tidings  of  his  election  at  Rugby,’  we  are  told  by  his 
biographer,  ‘was  overclouded  with  deep  sorrow  at  leaving  the  scene  of  so  much 
happiness.  Years  after  he  had  left  it,  he  still  retained  his  early  affection  for  it,  and 
till  he  purchased  his  house  in  Westmoreland,  he  entertained  a  lingering  hope  that 
he  might  return  to  it  in  his  old  age,  when  he  should  have  retired  from  Rugby. 
Often  he  would  revisit  it,  and  delighted  in  renewing  his  acquaintance  with  all  the 
families  of  the  poor  whom  he  had  known  during  his  residence  ;  in  showing  to  his 
children  his  former  haunts  ;  in  looking  once  again  on  his  favorite  views  of  the  great 


MAGNA  CHARTA  ISLAND. 


29 


THE  RIVER  THAMES. 


plain  of  Middlesex — the  lonely  walks  along  the  quiet  banks  of  the  Thames — the 
retired  garden  with  its  “Campus  Martius,”  and  its  “wilderness  of  trees,”  which  lay 
behind  the  house,  and  which  had  been  the  scene  of  so  many  sportive  games  and 
serious  conversations.’  1 

Chertsey,  on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  is  next  passed,  the  leisurely  traveler 
having  the  opportunity,  if  he  so  please,  of  visiting  the  house  of  Cowley  the  poet,  or 
of  climbing  to  St  Anne’s  Hill,  once  the  residence  of  the  statesman  Charles  James 
Fox. 

Then,  still  on  the  right,  the  mouth  of  the  Wey  is  seen,  the  pretty  town  of 
Weybridge  not  being  far  off.  Towns  and  villages  now  multiply:  the  villas  of  city 
men  begin  to  dot  the  banks  ;  and  the  suburban  railway  station  appears,  with  its 
hurrying  morning  and  evening  crowds.  The  chronicle  of  names  now  would  be  like 
the  monotonous  cry  of  the  railway  porter:  ‘  Shepperton  ;  Walton;  Sunbury  ; 
Hampton.’  But  as  yet  we  need  not  join  with  the  throng.  The  ‘silent  highway’ — 
as  the  river  has  been  called — is  also  a  retreat.  Still  we  can  leisurely  survey  the 
charm,  which,  so  long  as  the  sky,  the  water,  and  the  trees  remain,  no  builder  can 
efface,  although  he  may  try  his  best,  or  worst. 

A  bend  in  the  river  between  Shepperton  and  Walton  is  of  historic  interest,  as 

there  Julius  Caesar  with  his  legions 
forced  the  passage  of  the  Thames, 
and  routed  the  British  General 
Cassivelaunus.  ‘  Caesar  led  his 
army  to  the  territories  of  Cassive¬ 
launus,  to  the  river  Thames,  which 
river  can  be  crossed  on  foot  in 
one  place  only,  and  that  with  dif¬ 
ficulty.  On  arriving,  he  perceived 
that  great  forces  of  the  enemy  were 
drawn  up  on  the  opposite  bank, 
which  was  moreover  fortified  by 
sharp  stakes  set  along  the  margin, 
a  similar  stockade  being  fixed  in 
the  bed  of  the  river,  and  covered 
by  the  stream.  Having  ascertained  these  facts  from  prisoners  and  deserters, 
Caesar  sent  the  cavalry  in  front,  and  ordered  the  legions  to  follow  immediately. 
The  soldiers  advanced  with  such  rapidity  and  impetuosity,  although  up  to  their 
necks  in  the  water,  that  the  enemy  could  not  withstand  the  onset,  but  quitted  the 
banks  and  betook  themselves  to  flight.’ 2  The  name  Cowey,  or  Coway  Stakes,  to 
this  day  commemorates  the  event. 

1  Stanley’s  Life ,  vol  i.,  p.  37.  One  of  Arnold’s  Laleham  pupils,  afterwards  his  colleague  at  Rugby,  writes:  ‘The  most 
remarkable  thing,  which  struck  me  at  once  in  joining  the  Laleham  circle,  was  the  wonderful  healthiness  of  tone  and  feeling  which 
prevailed  in  it.  Everything  about  me  I  immediately  felt  to  be  most  real  ;  it  was  a  place  where  a  new-comer  at  once  felt  that 
a  great  and  earnest  work  was  going  forward.  Dr.  Arnold's  great  power  as  a  private  tutor  resided  in  this,  that  he  gave  such  an 
intense  earnestness  to  life.  Every  pupil  was  made  to  feel  that  there  was  a  work  for  him  to  do — that  his  happiness  as  well  as  his 
duty  lay  in  doing  that  work  well.  Hence,  an  indescribable  zest  was  communicated  to  a  young  man’s  feeling  about  life  ;  a  strange 
joy  came  over  him  on  discovering  that  he  had  the  means  of  being  useful,  and  thus  of  being  happy  ;  and  a  deep  respect  and 
ardent  attachment  sprang  up  toward  him  who  had  taught  him  thus  to  value  life  and  his  own  self,  and  his  work  and  mission  in 
this  world.’ 

5  Caesar,  Commentaries.  Book  v.  §  19, 


\ 


calls  the  council,  states  the  certain  day  ? 

forms  the  phalanx,  and  who  points  the  way  !’ — Pope. 


THE  RIVER  THAMES. 


TWICKENHAM  CHURCH. 

this  pretty  neighborhood,  and  the  poet’s  memory  is  reverenced  in  the  village  accord¬ 
ingly.  Here  are  the  first  and  last  verses  : 

‘  When  sultry  suns  and  dusty  streets  proclaim  town’s  “  winter  season,” 

And  rural  scenes  and  cool  retreats  sound  something  like  high  treason — 

I  steal  away  to  shades  serene  which  yet  no  bard  has  hit  on, 

And  change  the  bustling,  heartless  scene  for  quietude  and  Ditton. 
********* 

Here,  in  a  placid  waking  dream,  I’m  free  from  worldly  troubles, 

Calm  as  the  rippling  silver  stream  that  in  the  sunshine  bubbles  ; 

And  when  sweet  Eden’s  blissful  bowers,  some  abler  bard  has  writ  on, 

Despairing  to  transcend  his  powers,  I’ll  ditto  say  for  Ditton.’ 


Two  or  three  miles  farther,  and  just  past  Hampton  village,  on  the  left  bank,  the 
traveler  will  notice  a  little  rotunda  with  a  Grecian  portico  with  a  mansion  of  some 
pretensions  in  the  wooded  background.  The  house  was  Garrick’s  residence,  and  in 
the  rotunda  there  originally  stood  Roubiliac’s  famous  statue  of  Shakspere,  now  in 
the  British  Museum.  Bushey  Park  and  Hampton  Court  next  tempt  us  to  the  shore. 
Great  names  of  history  again  rise  to  memory — Wolsey,  Cromwell,  William  III.  But 
the  charm  of  Hampton  Court  is,  that  its  palace  and  gardens  are  free  of  access  to 
the  people  ;  a  privilege  which,  all  the  summer  through,  is  appreciated  by  eager, 
happy  throngs.  But  let  us  cross  the  river  to  the  comparative  solitude  of  the  two 
Dittons — ‘Thames’  and  ‘Long.’  An  improtnptu  of  poor  Theodore  Hook,  lively 
and  graceful,  according  to  his  wont,  has  led  many  a  tourist  in  search  of  a  holiday  to 


33 


THE  RIVER  THAMES. 


Then  comes  trim  Surbiton  with  its  villas,  and  Kingston — once,  as  its  name 
imports,  a  town  of  kings.  For  here  were  crowned  several  Saxon  monarchs ;  is 
there  not  the  coronation-stone  in  the  market-place,  engraven  with  their  names  ? 
Teddington  Lock,  a  little  lower  down,  is  the  last  upon  the  Thames;  and  here  too 
the  anglers  of  the  river  put  forth  their  chief  and  almost  their  final  strength.  The 
mile  from  Teddington  to  Eel-pie  Island  off  Twickenham  will  be  an  unusually  quiet 
one,  if  the  voyager  interfere  not  with  the  sport  of  one  or  other  of  these  gentry, 
drawing  down  their  resentment  accordingly.  Strawberry  Hill  reminds  us  of  Hor¬ 
ace  Walpole,  literary  idleness,  sham  Gothic,  and  bric-a-brac.  We  glance  and  pass 
on.  Pope’s  Villa  no  longer  exists  ;  only  a  relic  of  his  famous  grotto  remains  ;  but  a 
monument  to  the  poet  is  in  Twickenham  Church,  with  an  inscription  by  Warbur- 
ton,  setting  forth  that  Pope  ‘would  not  be  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey.’ 

Past  wood-fringed  meadows  on  either  hand,  the  ‘  Broadwater,’  now  rightly 
named,  sweeps  on  to  Richmond,  where  we  must  ascend  the  far-famed  hill,  to  gaze 
once  more  upon  the  finest  river-view  in  Europe.  A  little  farther  down,  on  autumn 
days,  off  Isleworth,  may  be  descried  flights  of  swallows,  preparing  for  their  outward 
journey.  ‘  They  arrive,’  writes  the  artist  who  has  depicted  the  scene,  ‘  in  a  mass,  at 
the  same  hour,  without  confusion,  as  it  were  in  regiments,  and  in  some  of  their 
oblique  evolutions  resemble  a  drift  of  black  snow.  At  dusk  they  all  sink  down  into 
the  island  or  “  ait  ”  opposite  the  church  of  Isleworth,  where  a  large  bed  of  osiers 
affords  them  in  its  slender  wands  a  settling-place  for  the  night.’ 

From  this  point,  all  Londoners  know  their  river.  The  beauty  of  nature  is  no 
longer  present,  but  a  new  sentiment  of  wonder  and  interest  takes  possession  of  us. 
We  feel  the  stir  and  hear  the  roar  of  the  great  Babel.  What  were  once  quiet  sub¬ 
urban  villages  are  now  but  a  part  of  the  metropolis.  Still,  however,  they  retain 
something  of  the  quaint  picturesqueness  of  the  last  century.  In  many  a  nook  and 
corner  we  come  upon  solid,  comfortable  houses  of  red  brick,  where  our  great-grand¬ 
mothers,  over  a  ‘  dish  of  tea,’  may  have  discussed  the  ‘  poems  of  a  person  of  qual¬ 
ity,’  or  ‘  the  writings  of  the  ingenious  Mr.  Addison.’  These  relics  of  the  last  cen¬ 
tury  are  rapidly  disappearing,  but  are  imitated  with  some  success  in  the  mansions 
which  line  the  broad  embankment  between  Cheyne  Walk  at  Chelsea  and  the  beau¬ 
tiful  Albert  Suspension  Bridge. 

The  noble  embankments  which  now  skirt  so  large  a  portion  of  the  London 
River,  and  the  bridges  old  and  new,  afford  every  facility  for  the  full  study  of  the 
Thames  in  all  its  aspects.  Yet  those  who  only  cross  with  the  hurrying  crowd  miss 
half  the  picturesqueness  of  what  many  who  have  traveled  far  still  recognize  as 
among  the  most  picturesque  city  views  in  Europe.  Wordsworth’s  sonnet,  begin¬ 
ning— 

*  Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair,’ 

was  written  on  Westminster  Bridge  !  But  then  it  was  on  an  early  summer  morn¬ 
ing,  when  the  ‘  mighty  heart  ’  of  the  city  was  ‘lying  still,’  and  the  ‘  very  houses 
seemed  asleep.’  The  blue  sky,  unobscured  by  smoke,  hung  in  the  freshness  of  the 
dawn  over  the  dwellings  of  men  and  the  heaven-pointing  spires.  The  night  airs 
had  swept  away  every  city  taint,  and  the  atmosphere  was  pure  as  among  the  moun¬ 
tains  or  by  the  sea.  The  experiment  is  worth  making  still — at  the  cost  of  an  hour 
or  two’s  earlier  rising,  to  prove  how  exhilarating,  fresh,  and  delightful  the  London 


34 


From  a  Jainting\ 


WIND  AGAINST  TIDE  (TILBURY  FORT) 


[by  Stanfield, 


THE  RIVER  THAMES. 


air  may  be.  Or  perhaps  the  charm  of  the  scene  may  be  more  deeply  felt  amid  the 
mystery  of  night,  when  the  clouds  have  dispersed,  and  but  for  some  rare  footfalls 
there  is  silence,  and  the  countless  lights  stretch  in  long  lines,  reflected  by  the  gent¬ 
ly  rippling  waters,  while  even  the  bright  glare  of  the  railway  lamps  aloft  only  add 
•color  and  splendor  to  the  gleaming  array,  and  the  steadfast  stars  hang  overhead. 
By  night,  or  in  early  morning,  perhaps  through  force  of  contrast,  the  full  beauty  of 
these  London  river  scenes  is  felt.  Or,  to  vary  the  impression,  we  may  take  boat, 
as  did  our  fathers,  from  bridge  to  bridge,  ‘from  Westminster  to  Rotherhithe,’  or 
farther  down  the  broadening  stream,  with  the  wealth  of  the  world,  as  it  almost 
seems,  ranged  on  either  hand  in  the  close-crowded  vessels  or  the  stupendous  ware¬ 
houses.  Every  such  excursion  is  a  new  revelation,  even  to  minds  accustomed  to 
the  scene,  of  what  is  meant  by  English  commerce,  and  of  the  ties  which  connect  us 
with  all  mankind.  Yet  there  is  much  to  remind  us  that  the  universal  reign  of  peace 
has  not  as  yet  set  in.  Grim  preparations  for  defense  and  war  bespeak  a  nation 
prepared,  if  needs  be,  for  strife.  And  as  at  length  we  reach  Tilbury  Fort,  and  glow 
under  the  influence  of  the  invigorating  sea-breeze,  great  memories  rush  in  upon  us 
of  armaments  once  gathered  here  ;  to  lead,  as  it  seemed,  a  forlorn  hope. 

When  King  James  I.  threatened  the  recalcitrant  corporation  of  London  with 
the  removal  of  the  court  to  Oxford,  the  Lord  Mayor,  with  scarcely  veiled  sarcasm, 
replied,  ‘  May  it  please  your  Majesty,  of  your  grace,  not  to  take  away  the  Thames 
too  !  ’  The  words  were  worthy  of  a  London  citizen,  and  may  well  remind  us,  before 
we  pass  to  other  English  scenes,  of  that  which,  after  all,  is  the  glory  of  the  river. 
We  have  been  dwelling  chiefly  on  its  picturesque  and  recreative  aspects  ;  and  of 
these  it  is  hardly  possible  to  make  too  much,  as  is  shown  by  the  largely  increasing 
number  of  weary  brain-workers  whose  choicest  holidays,  in  house-boat,  fishing-punt, 
or  tiny  yacht,  are  found  in  the  upper  reaches  of  the  Thames.  But  below  the 
bridges  of  the  metropolis,  a  new  world  seemed  to  open — a  busy,  crowded,  restless 
world,  darkened  by  many  a  cloud  of  smoke,  filled  with  strange  outcries  in  many 
tongues,  with  unlovely  ranges  of  building,  mile  after  mile,  until  the  clear  water  is 
reached  at  length  between  the  marshes  of  Essex  and  the  hills  of  Kent. 

o 

But  these  are  only  the  outward  aspects  of  the  scene.  Look  at  it  in  another 
light,  and  this  Lower  Thames  inspires  us  with  wonder  and  almost  awe  at  the  bound¬ 
less  wealth  and  world-wide  commerce  which  it  bears  upon  its  ample  bosom.  For 
good  or  for  evil,  influences  are  going  forth  from  these  broad  waters,  incessantly,  to 
affect  all  mankind.  Ever  and  anon,  some  vessel  of  the  yet  untried  ‘  navy  of  the 
future’  looms  into  sight,  with  its  grand  powers  of  defense,  its  terrible  possibilities  of 
destruction.  But  not  by  these  is  the  real  power  of  Britain  put  forth.  They  are  but 
.a  reserve.  It  is  another  navy  that  conveys  the  real  power  of  the  country  to  the 
nations. 

Take  him  for  all  in  all,  the  British  sailor  is  a  fine  noble-hearted  fellow,  with 
faults  on  the  surface,  but  a  heart  of  oak  beneath.  It  is  not  wonderful  that  he  is  the 
object  of  much  benevolent  and  Christian  attention,  both  ashore  and  afloat. 

But,  returning  to  our  favorite  river.  Of  the  outward-bound  ships,  dropping 
•downward  with  the  tide,  there  are  those  which  convey  the  Missionary  to  his  scene  of 
ihallow^d  toil  : — 

‘  Fly,  happy,  happy  sails,  and  bear  the  Press, 

Fly  happy  with  the  mission  of  the  Cross.1 


THE  RIVER  THAMES. 


A  friend  of  ours  in  long  passed  days,  used  to  tell  us  of  the  first  time  he  listened  to 
Robert  Hall,  and  of  the  first  words  which  he  caught  from  the  great  preacher’s  lips. 
The  place  of  worship  was  crowded,  and  for  a  time  the  low  utterances  of  Mr.  Hall’s 
marvelous  voice  were  completely  lost.  The  assembly  was  standing  in  prayer,  as  the 
custom  then  was.  By  degrees  a  hush  crept  over  the  throng — a  silence  that  might 
be  felt — then  through  the  stillness  stole  the  preacher’s  voice,  in  sweet  and  solemn 
continuance  of  his  hitherto  unheard  supplication  :  And  may  the  breath  of  prayer 
fill  the  sails  of  every  missionary  ship ,  and  waft  it  all  over  the  world ! 

These  memories  and  thoughts,  and  ‘  the  vision  that  shall  be,’  have  led  us  far. 
The  stream  whose  course  we  have  traced  from  the  tiny  rivulet  in  Trewsbury  Mead 
has  become  to  our  thoughts  the  channel  of  communications  which,  for  good  or  evil, 
are  affecting  every  nation  under  heaven. 


A  SURREY  COMMON. 


What  pleasant  groves,  what  goodly  fields  ! 

How  fruitful  hills  and  dales  have  we  ! 

How  sweet  an  air  our  climate  yields  ! 

How  stored  with  flocks  and  herds  are  we  ! 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

So  in  the  sweet  refreshing  shade 
Of  Thy  protection  sitting  down, 

The  gracious  favors  we  have  had, 

Relate  we  will  to  Thy  renown.' 

George  Wither  :  Songs  and  Hymns  of  the  Church, 


HE  is  a  benefactor  to  his  species  who  makes  two  blades  of  corn  to  grow  where 
only  one  grew  before.’  The  substantial  truth  of  the  aphorism  none  will 
question  ;  yet  it  would  be  a  doubtful  benefit  if  all  the  waste  lands  were  reclaimed 
and  brought  under  the  plow.  Enclosure  Acts,  by  extending  the  area  of  the 
productive  soil,  have  increased  the  resources  of  the  country  and  the  food  of  the 
people.  But  the  total  absorption  into  cultivated  farms  of  heath,  forest,  and  wood¬ 
land  would  be  to  purchase  the  utilitarian  advantage  at  too  high  a  price. 

The  open  commons  of  Surrey  and  the  rolling  downs  of  Sussex  are,  in  their  way, 
of  a  beauty  unsurpassed.  Both  are  chiefly  due  to  the  great  chalk  formation,  which 
comes  down  in  a  southwesterly  direction  from  the  eastern  counties,  breaks  into  the 
Chiltern  Hills,  extends  over  the  greater  part  of  Wiltshire,  Dorsetshire,  and  Hamp¬ 
shire  ;  and  in  the  east  of  the  last-named  county  becomes  separated  into  two 
branches;  one,  the  ‘  North  Downs,’  running  almost  due  east  to  the  North  Foreland 
and  Shakspere’s  Cliff ;  the  other,  the  ‘  South  Downs,’  pursuing  a  southeasterly 
direction  to  Beachy  Head.  In  their  long  and  undulating  course,  they  form  innumer¬ 
able  combinations  of  picturesque  beauty.  Places  elsewhere,  well  known  and  des¬ 
ervedly  famous,  are  rivaled  in  loveliness  by  many  a  sequestered  scene  in  the  line  of 


41 


SOUTH-EASTERN  RAMBLES. 


the  lower  chalk  country,  of  which  few  but  the  thinly  scattered  inhabitants,  and  now- 
ana  then  an  unconventional  tourist,  have  ever  heard. 

The  charm  of  these  lines  of  rolling  upland  is  much  enhanced  by  the  great 
rough  plain  which  they  inclose — ‘the  Weald  ’  ( i.e .,  Forest),  as  it  is  termed — extend¬ 
ing  in  an  irregular  triangle  from  the  point  where  the  Downs  diverge  to  the  British 
Channel.  Geologists  have  framed  many  theories  as  to  the  formation  of  the  Weald. 
It  belongs  to  the  oolite  formation  below  the  chalk  ;  it  is  the  uppermost  member  of 
that  formation,  and  was  a  deposit  of  sands  and  clays  in  a  tropical  climate,  as  is- 
abundantly  evident  from  animal  and  vegetable  remains  found  there.  These  prove 
the  existence  of  islands,  banks  and  forests,  forming  the  shores  of  a  vast  estuary,  the 


WEALD  OF  SUSSEX. 

embouchure  of  some  great  river  from  the  west.  At  one  time  the  deep  chalk  deposit 
extended  all  over  it  ;  but  this  was  disturbed  by  a  line  of  elevation  running  along  its 
east  and  west  axes,  the  superincumbent  chalk  being  broken  up  and  washed  away; 
hence  the  cliff-like  aspect  of  the  Downs  in  many  places,  where  they  descend  precipi¬ 
tously  to  the  sandy  and  gravelly  ledge  of  the  valley,  as  to  a  beach.  The  remains  of 
the  huge  land  lizards  and  iguanodons  of  the  Weald,  collected  by  the  late  Doctor 
Mantell,  form  one  of  the  most  conspicuous  exhibitions  of  fossil  bones  in  the  British 
Museum.  The  pretty  little  fossil  ferns,  Lonchopteris  and  Sphenopteris,  found 
nature-printed  on  the  sand-stones,  are,  on  the  other  hand,  the  very  counterparts,  in 
size  and  delicacy,  of  their  present  successors. 


42 


SO  U TH-EA S TERN  RAMBLES. 


In  early  times,  as  every  local  historian  tells,  the  Weald  was  a  chief  seat  of  the 
iron  manufacture  in  Great  Britain.  The  ironstone  found  here  was  certainly  wrought 
by  the  Romans  and  Saxons,  if  not  by  the  Ancient  Britons  ;  and  down  to  the  seven¬ 
teenth  century  the  trade  was  prosperous.  Many  an  old  manor-house,  to  the  present 
day,  attests  this  former  prosperity,  while  its  memories  linger  also  in  such  local  names.' 
as  Furnace  Place,  Cinder  Hill,  and  Hammer  Pond.  The  balustrades  round  St. 


HORSTED  KEYNES  CHURCH. 


Paul’s  Cathedral  are  a  relic  of  the  Sussex  ironworks.  Want  of  fuel,  and  the  more 
abundant  and  rich  ironstone  of  the  coal-measures,  caused  the  decay  of  the  industry, 
after  whole  forests  had  been  destroyed  to  feed  the  furnaces.  The  old-fashioned  cot¬ 
tages,  here  and  there  remaining,  speak  of  days  of  former  prosperity  among  the 
working-classes  ;  nor  are  they  even  yet  devoid  of  comfort,  although  the  transition 
has  been  great — ironworkers  then,  chicken-fatteners  now  ! 

The  ridge  that  runs  through  the  center  of  the  Weald  is  called  the  Forest  Ridge 

O  o  o 


43 


SOUTH-EASTERN  RAMBLES. 


and  Ashdown.  It  is  here  that  the  chief  beauties  of  the  district  are  concentrated, 
while  the  whole  plain  lies  open  to  view  from  the  heights.  Starting  from  East  Grin- 
stead,  near  to  which  is  the  source  of  the  Medway,  a  walk  of  extraordinary  interest 
and  sylvan  beauty  leads  by  Forest  Row  and  the  ruins  of  Brambletye  House  up  to 
High  Beeches  ;  from  which  spot  a  pleasant  excursion  may  be  made  to  Horsted 
Keynes,  where  the  gentle  and  saintly  Archbishop  Leighton  lies  buried.  His  grave 
is  in  the  chancel  ;  his  tombstone  outside  the  church.  Thence,  bearing  to  the  east, 
the  traveler  may  work  his  way  to  Crowborough  Beacon,  near  the  road  from  Tun¬ 
bridge  Wells  to  Lewes,  where,  with  a  foreground  of  moss  and  fern  dotted  here  and 
there  by  fir  trees,  he  may  look  over  the  whole  rolling  surface  of  the  Weald,  rich  with 
the  flowers  of  spring,  the  blossoms  of  summer,  or  the  golden  fruitage  and  yellow 
corn  of  the  autumn  ;  while  the  purple  downs  on  either  hand  close  in  the  prospect, 
with  just  one  gleam,  beyond  Beachy  Head,  of  the  distant  sea.  Then,  if  desirous  of 
prolonging  his  ramble  to  other  points  of  view,  he  may  cross  the  hills  to  Heathfield, 
resting  on  the  way  at  Mayfield,  an  old-world  Wealden  town,  once  a  residence  of 
archbishops,  and  the  traditional  scene  of  the  renowned  combat  between  Dunstan  and 
the  Devil.  Here  the  traveler  may  find  a  temporary  resting-place  in  some  rustic 
hostelry,  where,  if  luxuries  are  not  obtainable,  the  eggs  and  bacon  are  wholesome 
and  abundant  ;  the  sheets  are  fragrant  with  lavender  ;  and,  though  perhaps  a  little 
wondered  at  by  the  rustic  children,  he  will  have  a  home-like  welcome. 

Again  we  leave  the  beaten  track,  and  push  on  through  the  vale  of  Heathfield  to 
the  south  ;  for  a  walk  of  seven  or  eight  miles  will  bring  us  to  Hurstmonceux,  insep¬ 
arably  connected  with  the  name  and  work  of  Archdeacon  Hare,  the  philosophic 
theologian  and  devout  Christian,  whose  books  on  the  Victory  of  Faith  and  the  Mis¬ 
sion  of  the  Comforter  have  done  so  much  to  elevate  the  religious  thought  of  the  age  ; 
and  who,  by  his  Vindication  of  Ltither ,  has  made  it  impossible  for  any  man  of  com¬ 
petent  knowledge  and  fair  judgment  to  repeat  old  calumnies  against  the  great 
Reformer.  We  visit  the  castle — one  of  the  finest  remains  of  the  later  feudalism — 
fortress  and  mansion  in  one.  ‘  Persons  who  have  visited  Rome,’  writes  Archdeacon 
Hare,  ‘on  entering  the  Castle-court,  and  seeing  the  piles  of  brickwork  strewn  about, 
have  been  reminded  of  the  Baths  of  Caracalla,  though  of  course  on  a  miniature 
scale  ;  the  illusion  being  perhaps  fostered  by  the  deep  blue  of  the  Sussex  sky, 
which,  when  compared  with  that  in  more  northerly  parts  of  England,  has  almost  an 
Italian  character.’  After  exploring  the  great  ruddy-tinted  ruins,  we  may  ascend  to 
the  church,  taking  a  glance  at  the  rectory,  the  home  of  so  much  piety  and  genius, 
seeing  once  again  in  thought  the  archdeacon’s  friend  and  curate,  poor  John  Sterling, 
as  described  by  Hare,  with  his  tall  form  rapidly  advancing  across  the  lawn  to  the 
study  window ;  or  more  pensively  may  pass  to  the  churchyard,  where  so  many  mem¬ 
bers  of  the  parted  family  band  sleep  as  ‘  one  in  Christ.’ 

Before  turning  northwards,  let  us  make  our  way  to  Beachy  Head,  grandest  of 
the  English  chalk  headlands  in  the  south  ;  thence,  either  turning  westward  to  Sea- 
ford,  with  its  grand  cliff  scenery,  or  in  the  opposite  direction  to  Eastbourne,  that 
bright  modern  watering-place,  between  the  sea  and  the  hills,  with  the  quaint  Sussex 
village  in  the  background.  Here,  resting  for  a  while,  we  may  prepare  for  a  long, 
health-giving,  inspiring  ramble  over  the  South  Downs,  ‘that  chain  of  majestic 
mountains,’  as  White  of  Selbourne  calls  them — for  the  most  part  bare,  treeless  hills, 
sweeping  in  many  a  grand  curve,  broken  by  shadowed  ‘  coombes,’  or  wooded 


44 


SOUTH-EASTERN  RAMBLES. 


HURSTMONCEUX  CASTLE. 

Steyning  is  the  nearest  station  to  Chanctonbury,  and  we  would  advise  the 
tourist  to  take  train  there  for  the  North  Downs,  or,  better  still,  to  proceed  in  the 
opposite  direction  to  Arundel,  famous  for  its  picturesque  castle  and  park,  with  its 
fair  historic  pastures  :  but  in  either  case  the  Weald  will  be  crossed  vid  Horsham. 
About  half-way  between  Arundel  and  Horsham,  many  a  traveler  will  be  disposed  to 
turn  off  to  the  little  Sussex  town  of  Midhurst,  on  the  edge  of  the  Weald,  where 
Richard  Cobden  was  born,  and  where  the  old  ‘  Schola  Grammaticalis,’  the  most 
prominent  building  in  the  town,  has  the  twin  honor  of  the  great  Free  Trader’s  early 
education  and  that  of  Sir  Charles  Lyell,  the  geologist. 

Between  Midhurst  and  Dorking,  whither  the  traveler  is  bound,  he  may  see  to 
his  left  the  wooded  slopes  and  imposing  tower-crowned  summit  of  Leith  Hill,  the 


flowery  'deans.’  On  the  way  to  Lewes,  Firle  Beacon,  one  of  the  highest  points  of 
the  Downs,  may  be  ascended,  after  which  the  traveler  may  take  the  rail  to  Brighton 
and  Shoreham,  and  strike  up  hill  again  into  what  is  perhaps  the  finest  part  of  the 
range,  where  from  Chanctonbury  Ring  he  will  be  able  to  command  at  one  view  all 
its  most  characteristic  features.  The  height  itself  is  conspicuous  far  and  wide,  from 
its  dark  crown  of  fir  trees.  Probably  the  ‘  Ring  ’  denotes  here  the  ancient  entrench¬ 
ment,  British  or  Roman,  which  is  circular,  or  it  may  be  a  reminiscence  of  the  time 
when  fairies  were  believed  in  ;  ‘  fairy  rings  ’  being  a  common  feature  of  the  Downs  ; 
caused  really  by  the  growth  of  mushrooms,  the  grass  by  the  decay  of  the  latter 
becoming  a  deeper  green. 


BEACHY  HEAD. 


SOUTH-EASTERN  RAMBLES. 


loftiest  elevation  in  Southeastern 
England.  If  he  can  leave  the 
rail,  say  at  the  little  roadside  station  of  Capel, 
and  climb  the  hill  from  the  southeast  by 
Ockley  and  Tanhurst,  he  will  not  only  be 
richly  rewarded,  but  may  perhaps  express  his  astonishment  that  such  views  and 
such  a  walk  should  be  found  within  a  short  afternoon’s  journey  of  London. 

*  From  the  summit  of  Leith  Hill,  it  is  said  that  ten  counties  are  visible  ;  not 
only  Kent,  Sussex,  and  Surrey,  but  Hampshire,  Berkshire,  Oxfordshire,  Buck¬ 
inghamshire,  Middlesex,  Hertfordshire,  and  Essex.  The  eye  ranges,  in  short,  from 
a  height  of  just  less  than  1000  feet  over  a  circumference  of  200  miles  of  fair 
and  various  landscape  ;  valley  and  upland  ;  broad  meadows  and  wooded  slopes,  with 
many  an  open  ridge  against  the  sky.  Only  the  charm  of  river  or  lake  is  wanting  : 
but  we  are  in  no  mood  to  be  critical.  Downwards,  the  walk  is  full  of  interest, 
through  wooded  lanes  to  Anstiebury,  where  there  is  a  fine  Roman  encampment,  and 
on  to  romantic  Holmwood,  with  its  pine  woods  and  breezy  common  ;  past  Deep- 
dene,  the  wonderfully  beautiful  seat  of  the  Hope  family,  and  so  to  Dorking,  where 

48 


LEATHERHEAD  CHURCH,  NEAR  DORKING. 


SOUTH-EASTERN  RAMBLES. 


the  wearied  pedestrian  will  find  a  pleasant  rest,  with  nothing  to  excite  him,  save  the 
remembrances  of  his  little  excursion.  If  he  had  not  been  well  prepared  for  its 
exceeding  loveliness  beforehand,  it  must  have  been  to  him  a  surprise  as  well  as  a 
delight.  Comparisons  are  proverbially  distasteful,  but  we  can  understand,  if  we 
cannot  wholly  endorse,  the  rapturous  verdict  of  John  Dennis,  who  gives  it  as  his 
opinion  that  the  prospect  from  Leith  Hill  ‘  surpasses  at  once  in  rural  charm,  pomp, 
and  magnificence’  the  view  of  the  Val  d’Arno  from  the  Apennines,  or  of  the  Cam- 
pagna  from  Tivoli. 

The  charm  of  this  neighborhood  is  now  well  understood  by  not  a  few  wearied 
Londoners,  who  find  a  summer’s  home  in  one  or  other  of  the  many  picturesque 
farmhouses — many  of  them  really  fine  specimens  of  eighteenth,  and  even  seven¬ 
teenth,  century  architecture.  Nor  can  there  well  be  a  greater  rest  for  the  parents, 
or  delight  for  the  children,  than  this  dwelling  amid  rural  sights  and  sounds  in  the 


cobden’s  birthplace,  at  midhurst. 


brightest  time  of  the  year.  These  Sussex  and  Surrey  farmsteads  are  becoming 
formidable  rivals  to  the  crowded  seaside.  Not  only  so,  but  in  our  walks  through 
these  districts  we  have  often  met  the  pale-cheeked,  hollow-eyed,  prematurely  quick¬ 
witted  boys  and  girls  of  London  ‘  slums,’  sent  hither  by  thoughtful,  well-timed 
charity,  and  cared  for  by  kindly  cottagers,  until  in  a  very  few  weeks  they  learn  to 
play  and  run  like  country  children,  and  carry  back  with  them  some  color  on  their 
sallow  cheeks,  with  a  store  of  happy  remembrances  to  brighten  their  poor  lives. 
Among  the  philanthropic  schemes  of  the  day  there  is  hardly  one  that  has  in  it 
greater  promise  of  good  than  this  effort  to  bring  the  sweet  influences  of  country  life 
to  bear  upon  the  children  of  the  gutter  and  the  squalid  back  streets  of  town.  No 
doubt  the  scheme,  like  others,  requires  to  be  very  carefully  worked  out  in  detail, 
with  caution  on  many  points  that  need  not  be  indicated  here.  But,  well  managed, 
it  must  be  a  moral  and  educational  influence  fraught  with  blessing. 


49. 


SOUTH-EASTERN  RAMBLES. 


We  are  now  fairly  in  the  Surrey 
Hills,  and  may  put  what  some  will 
think  the  very  crown  to  these  south¬ 
eastern  excursions  by  a  walk  from  Dorking  to  Farnham.  Ascending  by  one  of 
many  lanes,  shadowed  (at  the  time  of  our  visit)  by  hedges  bright  with  hawthorn 
berries,  and  tall  trees  just  touched  with  the  russet  and  gold  of  early  autumn, 
we  are  soon  upon  an  upland  stretch  of  heath  and  forest,  still  remaining  in  all 
the  wildness  of  nature.  Sometimes  the  path  leads  us  between  venerable  trees — 
oak  and  beech,  and  yew,  whose  branches  form  an  impenetrable  roof  overhead, 
then  traverses  a  sweep  of  bare  hill,  bright  with  gorse  and  heather,  then  plunges 
into  some  fairy  dell,  carpeted  with  softest  moss.  Many  of  the  ‘  stately  homes  of 
England  ’  upon  the  lower  slopes,  with  their  embowering  trees,  add  a  charm  to  the 
scene  by  their  reminiscences  as  well  as  by  their  beauty.  To  the  left  is  Wotton; 
made  famous  by  the  name  and  genius  of  John  Evelyn,  author  of  Sylva  and  the 
Diary — the  scholar,  gentleman,  and  Christian — pure-minded  in  an  age  of  corruption, 
and  the  admiration  of  dissolute  courtiers,  who  could  respect  what  they  would  not 
imitate. 


SHERE  CHURCH. 


50 


SO  U  TH-Jz  A  S  TERN  RAMBLES. 

It  is  to  him  that  Cowley  says  : 

‘  Happy  art  thou,  whom  God  does  bless 
With  the  full  choice  of  thine  own  happiness  ; 

And  happier  yet,  because  thou’rt  blest 
With  wisdom  how  to  choose  the  best.’ 

That  the  choice  was  made,  for  life  and  death,  appears  by  the  inscription  which 
Evelyn  directed  to  be  placed  on  his  tombstone  at  Wotton.  ‘  That  living  in  an  age 


AT  HASLEMERE. 

of  extraordinary  events  and  revolution,  he  had  learned  from  thence  this  truth,  which 
he  desired  might  be  thus  communicated  to  posterity  :  that  all  is  vanity  which  is  not 
honest,  and  that  there  is  no  solid  wisdom  but  real  piety.’ 

Beyond  Wotton  is  the  charming  village  of  Shere,  with  its  picturesque  little 
church  and  crystal  stream.  Two  or  three  miles  farther,  Albury  is  reached,  with  its 
lovely  gardens  designed  by  Evelyn.  The  curious  traveler  may  here  inspect  the 
sumptuous  church  erected  by  the  late  Mr.  Drummond,  the  owner  of  Albury,  for  the 
followers  of  Edward  Irving.  The  worth  of  Mr.  Drummond’s  character,  with  the 
shrewd  sense  and  caustic  wit  by  which  he  was  wont  to  enliven  the  debates  of  the 


51 


SOUTH-EASTERN  RAMBLES. 


House  of  Commons,  laid  a  deeper  hold  upon  his  contemporaries  than  his  theologi¬ 
cal  peculiarities  ;  and  the  special  views  of  which  this  temple  is  the  costly  memorial 
have  proved  of  insufficient  power  to  sway  the  minds  and  hearts  of  men.  Still 
ascending,  we  reach  again  the  summit  of  steep  downs,  and,  advancing  by  noble  yew 
trees,  gain  at  Newlands’  Corner  another  magnificent  view.  The  hill  of  the  ‘  Holy 
Martyrs’  ’  Chapel,  now  corrupted  to  ‘  Saint  Martha’s,’  may  next  be  climbed,  and  a 
short  rest  at  the  fine  old  town  of  Guildford  will  be  welcome.  The  castle,  the 
churches  with  their  monuments,  and  Archbishop  Abbot’s  Hospital,  are  all  worthy 
of  a  visit  ;  and  a  run  by  rail  to  Haslemere,  near  which  beautiful  village  Lord  Ten¬ 
nyson  has  fixed  his  abode,  may  well  occupy  a  leisure  day,  with,  if  possible,  a  climb 
to  Blackdown,  a  mile  or  two  beyond  the  poet’s  residence,  with  its  fresh  breezes  and 
splendid  prospects.  But  for  the  pedestrian  a  much  finer  approach  to  Haslemere 
will  be  over  the  upland  commons  from  Farnham.  Reserving,  therefore,  this  excur¬ 
sion  for  the  present,  let  us  press  on  from  Guildford  to  Farnham  by  a  ten  miles’ 
walk  over  the  ‘  Hog’s  Back.’ 

Climbing  from  the  Guildford  station  through  pleasant  lanes,  the  traveler 
emerges  upon  a  narrow  chalk-ridge,  half  a  mile  wide,  and  nearly  level,  which  ety¬ 
mologists  tell  us  was  called  by  the  Anglo-Saxons  Hoga,  a  hill,  whence  the  ridge 
received  its  name.  Possibly,  however,  a  simpler  derivation,  as  the  more  obvious,  is 
also  the  more  correct.  The  long  upland  unbroken  line  might  not  inaptly  have  been 
compared  with  one  of  those  long,  lean,  narrow-backed  swine  with  which  early  Eng¬ 
lish  illuminations  make  us  familiar  ;  and  the  homeliness  of  the  name  would  quite 
accord  with  the  habit  of  early  topographers.  The  walk  is  interesting,  but,  after  the 
varied  beauties  of  the  way  from  Dorking  to  Guildford,  may  appear  at  first  slightly 
monotonous.  On  either  side  the  fair,  fertile  champaign  of  Surrey  stretches  to 
the  horizon,  broken  here  and  there  by  low  wood-crowned  hills  ;  and  at  one  point 
especially,  between  Puttenham  on  the  left,  and  Wanborough  on  the  right,  the  com. 
binations  of  view  are  very  striking.  Puttenham  church-tower,  and  the  manor-house, 
formerly  the  Priory,  peep  out  from  amongst  the  foliage  of  some  grand  old  trees. 
A  few  cottages  and  farmhouses  lie  scattered  about  picturesquely,  forming  the  very- 
ideal  of  an  old  English  village  ;  while  pine-covered  Crooksbury  Hill,  with  the 
‘  Devil’s  Jumps  ’  and  Hindhead  in  the  farther  distance,  make  a  striking  background 
to  the  view.  ‘  Wan,’  is  evidently  ‘  Woden,’  and  here  there  was  no  doubt  a  shrine  of 
the  ancient  Saxon  deity.  We  must  not  omit  in  passing  to  drink  of  the  Wanbor¬ 
ough  spring,  among  the  freshest  and  purest  in  England;  never  known,  it  is  said,  to 
freeze. 

Pursuing  our  journey,  we  presently  look  down  upon  Moor  Park,  and  Waver- 
ley,  which  we  may  either  visit  now,  descending  by  the  little  village  of  Seale,  or 
reserve  for  an  excursion  from  Farnham.  Waverley  contains  the  picturesque  re¬ 
mains  of  an  old  Cistercian  Abbey,  built  as  the  Cistercians  always  did  build,  in  a 
charming  valley,  embosomed  in  hills,  irrigated  by  a  clear  running  stream,  abound¬ 
ing  in  fish,  and  with  current  enough  to  turn  the  mill  of  the  monastery.  The  annals 
of  this  great  establishment,  extending  over  two  hundred  and  thirty  years,  were  pub¬ 
lished  toward  the  close  of  the  seventeenth  century;  and  Sir  Walter  Scott  took 
from  them  the  name  now  so  familiar  wherever  the  English  language  is  spoken. 

Divided  from  Waverley  by  a  winding  lane,  whose  high  banks  and  profuse 
undergrowth  remind  us  of  Devonshire,  lies  Moor  Park.  Hither  Sir  William  Temple 


52 


SOUTH-EASTERN  RAMBLES. 


retired  from  the  toils  of  state,  to  occupy  his  leisure  by  gardening,  planting,  and  in 
writing  memoirs.  A  trim  garden,  with  stiff-clipped  hedges,  and  watered  by  a 
straight  canal  which  runs  through  it,  is  doubtless  a  reminiscence  of  Temple’s  resi¬ 
dence  as  our  ambassador  at  the  Hague.  ‘  But,’  says  Lord  Macaulay,  ‘  there  were 
other  inmates  of  Moor  Park  to  whom  a  higher  interest  belongs.  An  eccentric,  un¬ 
couth,  disagreeable  young  Irishman,  who  had  narrowly  escaped  plucking  at  Dublin, 
attended  Sir  William  as  an  amanuensis  for  board  and  twenty  pounds  a  year  ;  dined 
at  the  second  table,  wrote  bad  verses  in  praise  of  his  employer,  and  made  love  to  a 


A  HOP-GARDEN. 


very  pretty  dark-eyed  young  girl,  who  waited  on  Lady  Giffard.  Little  did  Temple 
imagine  that  the  coarse  exterior  of  his  dependant  concealed  a  genius  equally  suited 
to  politics  and  to  letters,  a  genius  destined  to  shake  great  kingdoms,  to  stir  the 
laughter  and  the  rage  of  millions,  and  to  leave  to  posterity  memorials  which  can 
only  perish  with  the  English  language.  Little  did  he  think  that  the  flirtation  in  his 
servants’  hall,  which  he,  perhaps,  scarcely  deigned  to  make  the  subject  of  a  jest, 
was  the  beginning  of  a  long,  unprosperous  love,  which  was  to  be  as  widely  famed  as 
the  passion  of  Petrarch  or  Abelard.  Sir  William’s  secretary  was  Jonathan  Swift. 
Lady  Giffard’s  waiting-maid  was  poor  Stella.’ 


53 


SOUTH-EASTERN  RAMBLES. 


Just  outside  the  lodge  gate,  at  the  end  of  the  park  farthest  from  the  mansion,  is. 
a  small  house  covered  with  roses  and  evergreens.  It  is  known  to  the  peasantry  as 
‘  Dame  Swift’s  Cottage.’  Our  rustic  guide  pointed  it  out  by  this  name,  but  who 
Dame  Swift  was  he  did  not  know.  He  had  never  heard  of  Stella  and  her  sad  his¬ 
tory.  An  object  of  far  greater  interest  to  him  was  a  large  fox-earth,  a  couple  of 
hundred  yards  away,  in  which  some  years  ago  ‘a  miser’  had  lived  and  died.  A 
whole  crop  of  legends  have  already  sprung  up  about  the  mysterious  inmate  of  the 
cave.  He  was  a  nobleman,  so  said  our  informant,  who  had  been  crossed  in  love  ;  he 
had  made  a  vow  that  no  human  being  should  see  his  face,  and  accordingly  never 
came  out  till  after  nightfall,  even  then  being  closely  wrapped  up  in  his  cloak.  After 
his  death  a  party  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  came  down  from  London  in  a  post-chaise 
and  four;  and,  having  buried  the  body,  carried  away  ‘  a  cartload  of  golden  guineas, 
and  fine  dresses,  which  he  had  hid  in  the  cave.' 

The  picturesqueness  of  the  approach  to  Farnham,  whether  over  the  last  ridge 
of  the  Hog’s  Back,  or  through  the  lanes  from  Seale,  Moor  Park,  and  Waverley,  is. 
much  enhanced  by  the  hop-gardens,  which  occupy  about  a  thousand  acres  in  the 
neighborhood.  For  excellence  the  Farnham  hops  are  considered  to  bear  the  palm, 
although  the  chief  field  of  this  peculiar  branch  of  cultivation  is  in  Kent.  No  south¬ 
eastern  rambles,  especially  in  the  early  autumn,  would  be  complete  without  a  visit 
to  the  gardens  where  the  hop-picking  is  in  full  operation.  It  is  the  great  holiday  for 
thousands  of  the  humbler  class  of  Londoners,  as  well  as  the  chosen  resort  of  thous¬ 
ands  of  the  ‘  finest  pisantry  ’  from  the  Emerald  Isle.  Costermongers,  watermen, 
sempstresses,  factory  girls,  laborers  of  all  descriptions,  young  and  old,  bear  a  hand 
at  the  work.  The  air  is  invigorating,  the  task  to  the  industrious  is  easy,  and  the  pay 
is  not  bad.  The  hop-pickers,  who  are  in  such  numbers  that  they  cannot  obtain  even 
humble  lodgings  in  the  villages,  sleep  in  barns,  sheds,  stables,  and  booths,  or  even 
under  the  hedges  in  the  lanes.  A  rough  kind  of  order  is  maintained  among  them¬ 
selves  ;  although  outbreaks  of  violence  and  debauchery  sometimes  happen.  On  the 
whole,  the  work  is  not  unhealthy,  and  the  opportunity  of  engaging  in  it  is  as  real  a 
boon  to  the  hop-pickers  as  a  journey  to  Scarborough  or  Biarritz  to  those  of  another 
class.  Besides  which,  the  great  gathering  of  people  gives  opportunities  of  which 
Christian  activity  avails  itself ;  and  the  evening  visit  to  the  encampment,  the  homely 
address,  the  quiet  talk,  and  the  well-chosen  tract,  have  been  instrumental  of  lasting 
good  to  those  whom  religious  agencies  elsewhere  have  failed  to  reach. 

Farnham  has  special  associations  with  both  the  Church  and  the  Army  ;  and  the 
impartial  visitor  will  no  doubt  take  an  opportunity  of  seeing  the  stately  moated 
castle,  the  abode  of  the  Bishops  of  Winchester,  and  of  visiting  the  neighboring 
camp  of  Aldershot.  The  politician  will  recall  the  name  of  William  Cobbett,  who 
was  born  in  this  neighborhood,  and,  in  his  own  direct  and  homely  style,  often  dwells 
on  his  boyish  recollections  of  its  charms.  Some  will  not  forget  another  name  asso¬ 
ciated  with  this  little  Surrey  town.  One  among  the  sweetest  singers  of  our  modern 
Israel,  Augustus  Toplady,  was  born  at  Farnham.  He  died  at  the  age  of  thirty- 
eight,  but  he  lived  long  enough  to  write  ‘  Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me  ’  ;  and  none 
need  covet  a  nobler  earthly  immortality. 

From  Farnham,  as  we  have  said,  the  pedestrian  may  pursue  his  way  over 
breezy  uplands  by  Hindhead  and  the  ‘Devil’s  Punchbowl  ’  to  Haslemere — a  grand 
and  inspiring  nine  miles’  walk  :  or  he  may  return,  as  we  were  fain  to  do,  by  rail  to 


54 


SOUTH-EASTERN  RAMBLES. 


London,  only  turning  aside  at  Weybridge  to  Addlestone  to  see  the  Crouch  Oak — 
one  of  the  famous  trees  of  England.  Crouch  perhaps  means  cross,  from  some  mark 
upon  the  tree,  once  showing  it  to  be  on  the  boundary  of  Windsor  Forest.  But 
however  this  may  be,  the  tree  is  a  grand  relic  of  the  past.  John  Wycliffe,  it  is  said, 
once  preached  under  its  spreading  branches  ;  and  a  better-attested  tradition  repre¬ 
sents  ‘  the  good  Queen  Bess  ’  as  having  once  dined  beneath  its  shadow. 


WINDMILL  NEAR  ARUNDEL. 


IN  THE  NEW  FOREST. 


‘  The  groves  were  God’s  first  temples.  Ere  man  learned 
To  hew  the  shaft,  and  lay  the  architrave, 

And  spread  the  roof  above  them, — ere  he  framed 

The  lofty  vault,  to  gather  and  roll  back 

The  sound  of  anthems  ;  in  the  darkling  wood, 

Amid  the  cool  and  silence,  he  knelt  down, 

And  offered  to  the  Mightiest  solemn  thanks 
And  supplication.’ 


William  Cullen  Bryant, 


THE  NEW  FOREST. — A  GROUP  OF  FOREST  PONIES. 


FORESTS  AND  WOODLANDS. 


WHEN  Britain  was  first  brought  by  Roman  ambition  within  the  knowledge 
of  Southern  Europe,  the  interior  of  the  island  was  one  vast  forest.  Csesar 
and  Strabo  agree  in  describing  its  towns  as  being  nothing  more  than  spaces 
cleared  of  trees— ‘  royds,’  or  ‘thwaites,’  in  North  of  England  phrase — where  a  few 
huts  were  placed  and  defended  by  ditch  or  rampart.  Somersetshire  and  the 
adjacent  counties  were  covered  by  the  Coit  Mawr,  or  Great  Wood.  Asser  tells  us 
that  Berkshire  was  so  called  from  the  Wood  of  Berroc,  where  the  box-tree  grew 
most  abundantly.  Buckinghamshire  was  so  called  from  the  great  forests  of  beech 
(hoc),  of  which  the  remnants  still  survive.  The  Cotswold  Hills,  and  the  Wolds  of 
Yorkshire,  are  shown  by  their  names  to- have  been  once  far-spreading  woodlands  ; 
and  the  same  may  be  said  of  the  Weald  of  Sussex,  the  subject,  in  part,  of  the  pre¬ 
ceding  chapter.  ‘  In  the  district  of  the  Weald,’  writes  the  Rev.  Isaac  Taylor, 
‘almost  every  local  name,  for  miles  and  miles,  terminates  in  hurst ,  ley,  den,  or  field. 
The  hursts  were  the  dense  portions  of  the  forests ;  the  leys  are  the  open  forest- 
glades  where  the  cattle  love  to  lie  ;  the  dens  are  the  deep-wooded  valleys,  and  the 
fields  were  little  patches  of  “felled”  or  cleared  land  in  the  midst  of  the  surrounding 
forest.  From  Petersfield  and  Midhurst,  by  Billinghurst,  Cuckfield,  Wadhurst,  and 
Lamberhurst  as  far  as  Hawkshurst  and  Tenderden,  these  names  stretch  in  an  unin¬ 
terrupted  string.’  And,  again,  ‘A  line  of  names  ending  in  den  testifies  to  the  exist¬ 
ence  of  the  forest  tract  in  Hertfordshire,  Bedfordshire,  and  Huntingdon,  which 
formed  the  western  boundary  of  the  East  Saxon  and  East  Anglian  Kingdom. 
Henley  in  Arden  and  Hampton  in  Arden  are  vestiges  of  the  great  Warwickshire 
forest  of  Arden,  which  stretched  from  the  Forest  of  Dean  to  Sherwood  Forest.’ 
Hampshire  was  already  a  forest  in  the  time  of  William  the  Conqueror  ;  all  he  did 
was  to  sweep  away  the  towns  and  villages  which  had  sprung  up  within  its  precincts. 
Epping  and  Hainault  are  but  fragments  of  the  ancient  forest  of  Essex,  which 
extended  as  far  as  Colchester.  Lancashire,  Cheshire,  Yorkshire  and  the  other 
northern  counties,  were  the  haunts  of  the  wolf,  the  wild  boar,  and  the  red  deer, 
which  roamed  at  will  over  moorland  and  forest,  and  have  given  their  names  here 
and  there  to  a  bold  upland  or  sequestered  nook. 


59 


FORESTS  AND  WOODLANDS. 


Even  down  to  the  time  of  Queen  Elizabeth  immense  tracts  of  primeval  forest 
remained  unreclaimed. 

And  here  it  should  be  noted  that  though,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  forest  lands  are 
generally  woodlands  also,  this  is  not  essential  to  the  meaning  of  the  word.  A 
‘  forest,’  says  Mr.  Hensleigh  Wedgwood,1  ‘  is  probably  a  wilderness,  or  uncultivated 
tract  of  country  ;  but,  as  such  were  commonly  overgrown  with  trees,  the  word  took 
the  meaning  of  a  large  wood.  We  have  many  forests  in  England  without  a  stick  of 
timber  upon  them.’  It  is  especially  so  in  Scotland,  as  many  ?.  traveler  who  has 
driven  all  the  long  day  by  the  treeless  ‘  Forest  of  Breadalbane’  will  well  remember. 

The  question  has  been  recently  much  discussed  in  England  as  to  whether  the 
forests  ought  to  be  retained  in  their  present  extent.  Economists  have  shown  by  cal¬ 
culation  that  forests  do  not  pay.  It  is  said  that  they  encourage  idleness  and  poach¬ 
ing,  and  thus  lead  to  crime.  Estimates  have  been  made  of  the  amount  of  grain  which 
might  be  raised  if  the  soil  were  brought  under  the  plow.  Yet  few  persons  who  have 
wandered  through  the  glades  of  these  glorious  woodlands  would  be  willing  to  part 
with  them.  Admit  that  the  cost  of  maintenance  is  in  excess  of  their  return  to  the 
national  exchequer,  yet  England  is  rich  enough  to  bear  the  loss  ;  and  it  is  a  poor 
economy  which  reduces  everything  to  a  pecuniary  estimate.  4  Man  shall  not  live  by 
bread  alone.’  In  God’s  world  beauty  has  its  place  as  well  as  utility.  ‘  Consider  the 
lilies.’ 

‘  God  might  have  made  enough — enough 
For  every  want  of  ours, 

For  temperance,  medicine,  and  use, 

And  yet  have  made  no  flowers.’ 

4  He  hath  made  everything  beautiful  in  its  time’;  and  intends  that  we  should  re¬ 
joice  in  His  works  as  well  as  feed  upon  His  bounty  and  learn  from  His  wisdom. 
While  by  no  means  insensible  to  the  charm  of  a  richly  cultivated  district,  where  ‘the 
pastures  are  clothed  with  flocks,  the  valleys  also  are  covered  over  with  corn,’  yet  let 
us  trust  that  the  day  is  far  distant  when  the  few  remaining  forests  shall  have  disap¬ 
peared  before  modern  improvements  and  scientific  husbandry. 

To  the  lover  of  nature,  forest  scenery  is  beautiful  at  all  seasons.  How  pleasant 
is  it,  in  the  hot  summer  noon,  to  lie  beneath  the  4  leafy  screen,’  through  which  the 
sunlight  flickers  like  golden  rain  ;  to  watch  the  multitudinous  life  around  us — the 
squirrel  flashing  from  bough  to  bough,  the  rabbit  darting  past  with  quick,  jerky  move¬ 
ments,  the  birds  flitting  hither  and  thither  in  busy  idleness,  the  columns  of  insects  in 
ceaseless,  aimless,  gliding  motion — and  to  listen  to  the  mysterious  undertone  of 
sound  which  pervades  rather  than  disturbs  the  silence  !  Beautiful,  too,  are  the 
woods  when  autumn  has  touched  their  greenery  with  its  own  variety  of  hue.  From 
the  old  Speech  House  of  the  Forest  of  Dean  we  have  looked  out  as  on  a  billowy, 
far-extending  sea  of  glory — elm,  oak,  beech,  ash,  maple,  all  with  their  own  peculiar 
tints,  yet  bleeding  into  one  harmonious  chord  of  color  in  the  light  of  the  wester¬ 
ing  sun  ;  whilst  from  among  them  the  holly  and  the  yew  stood  out  like  green  islands 
set  in  an  ocean  of  gold. 

A  little  later  in  the  year,  and  we  tread  among  the  rustling  leaves,  whilst  over  us 
interlaces  in  intricate  tracery  a  network  of  branches,  twigs,  and  sprays  : — 


6o 


‘  The  ruined  choirs  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang. 
1  Dictionary  of  English  Etymology. 


FORESTS  AND  WOODLANDS. 


IN  THE  NEW  FOREST. 


Return  a  few  weeks  afterwards, 
and  surely  it  will  be  felt  that  forest 
scenery  is  never  more  fairy-like  than 
when  the  bare  boughs  are  feathered 

o 

with  snowflakes,  or  sparkle  with 
icicles  that  flash  like  diamonds  in 
the  wintry  sunlight,  or  faintly  tinkle 
overhead  as  they  sway  to  and  fro  in 
the  icy  breeze.  Never  is  the  forest 
more  solemn  than  when,  with  a  sound 
like  thunder  or  the  raging  sea,  the  wind  tosses  the  giant  branches  in  wild  commotion. 
We  cannot  wonder  that  Schiller  delighted  to  wander  alone  in  the  stormy  midnight 
through  the  woods,  listening  to  the  tempest  which  raged  aloft,  or  that  much  of  his 
grandest  poetry  was  composed  amid  scenes  like  these. 

Nor  must  we  forget  the  aspect  of  the  woods  in  early  spring,  when  Nature  is 
just  awakening  from  her  winter’s  sleep.  It  needs  a  quick  eye  to  trace  the  delicate 
shades  of  color  which  then  succeed  each  other — the  dull  brown  first  brightening  into 


a  reddish  hue,  as  the  glossy  leaf-cases  begin  to  expand,  then  a  faint  hint  of  tender 
green  as  the  pale  leaves  burst  from  their  enclosure  one  after  another,  tinging  with 
color  the  skeleton  branches  which  they  are  soon  to  clothe  with  their  beautiful 
mantle. 


‘Mysterious  round  !  What  skill,  what  force  divine, 
Deep  felt,  in  these  appear  !  A  simple  train, 

Yet  so  delightful,  mixed  with  such  kind  art, 

Such  beauty  and  beneficence  combined, 

Shade  unperceived  so  softening  into  shade, 

And  all  so  forming  an  harmonious  whole. 

That,  as  they  still  succeed,  they  ravish  still.’ 


61 


FORESTS  AND  WOODLANDS. 


The  New  Forest  claims  precedence  over  all  others,  from  its  extent,  its  pictur¬ 
esque  beauty,  and  its  historical  associations.  Though  greatly  encroached  upon 
since  the  time  that  the  Conqueror  ‘loved  its  red  deer  as  if  he  were  their  father,’  and 
the  Red  King  fell  beneath  the  arrow  of  Sir  Walter  Tyrrell,  it  still  contains  long 
stretches  of  wild  moorland,  and  mighty  oaks  which  may  have  been  venerable  in  the 
days  of  the  Plantagenets.  The  red  deer  have  entirely  disappeared.  About  a 
hundred  fallow  deer  yet  remain.  They  are  very  shy,  hiding  themselves  in  the  least 
visited  recesses  of  the  Forest,  and  are  rarely  seen  except  during  the  annual  hunt, 
which  takes  place  every  spring.  In  1874  a  pack  of  bloodhounds  was  brought  down 
by  Lord  Londesborough,  who  owns  a  beautiful  park  near  Lyndhurst.  The  sport, 


THE  RUFUS  STONE,  NEW  FOREST. 


however,  is  said  not  to  have  been  very  good.  Numerous  droves  of  forest  ponies 
run  wild,  and  with  the  herds  of  swine  feeding  upon  the  acorns  and  beech-mast,  give 
animation  to  the  scene.  Amid  the  forest  glades  even  pigs  become  picturesque. 

Charming  excursions  may  be  made  into  the  Forest  from  the  towns  on  its 
borders,  Southampton,  Lymington,  Christchurch,  or  Ringwood.  But  he  who  would 
fully  appreciate  its  beauties  must  take  up  his  quarters  at  Lyndhurst,  in  the  very 
heart  of  its  finest  scenery.  From  this  center,  walks  or  drives  may  be  taken  in  every 
direction,  and  in  almost  endless  variety.  One  of  these,  describing  a  circuit  of  about 
twelve  miles,  past  the  Rufus  Stone  and  Boldrewood,  claims  especial  mention.  The 
road  leads  for  a  short  distance  through  a  richly  wooded  and  highly  cultivated  dis¬ 
trict,  by  Rushpole  Wood,  past  the  pretty  village  of  Minstead,  where  the  ‘  Trusty 
62 


FORESTS  AND  WOODLANDS. 


Servant,’  after  the  old  English  fashion  of  serious  humor,  is  an  allegory  upon  a  sign¬ 
post.  Soon  we  pass  Castle  Malwood,  Sir  William  Harcourt’s  seat,  with  its  magnifi¬ 
cent  trees,  and  fine  distant  prospects 
through  leafy  avenues,  extending  over 
the  New  Forest,  and  reaching  to 
Southampton  Water,  the  Solent,  and 
hi  the  Isle  of  Wight.  In  the  Keep  of 
this  Castle,  it  is  said  William  Rufus 
slept  the  night  before  his  fatal  hunt¬ 
ing  excursion. 

A  little  farther  on,  a  turn  to  the 
right  leads  down  to  a  leafy  dell,  where 
the  ‘Rufus  Stone  ’  commemorates  the 
Red  King’s  death.  The  stone  is  en¬ 
cased  in  a  triangular  prism  of  iron, 
between  five  and  six  feet  in  height, 
bearing  an  inscription  on  each  of  its 


‘Here  stood  the  oak  tree  on  which  an  arrow 
shot  by  Sir  Walter  Tyrrell  at  a  stag,  glanced 
and  struck  King  William  the  Second,  surnamed 
Rufus,  on  the  breast,  of  which  he  instantly  died, 
on  the  2nd  day  of  August,  Anno  noo.’ 

‘  King  William  the  Second,  surnamed  Rufus, 
being  slain  as  before  related,  was  laid  in  a  cart 
belonging  to  one  Purkis,  and  drawn  from  thence  to  Winchester,  and  buried  in  the  cathedral  Church 
of  that  city.’ 


THE  NEW  FOREST  IN  AUTUMN. 


three  sides,  telling  the  story  of  the 
catastrophe,  as  handed  down  by  tra¬ 
dition. 


FORESTS  AND  WOODLANDS. 


‘  That  the  spot  where  an  event  so  memorable  had  happened  might  not  hereafter  be  forgotten,  this  stone 
was  set  up  by  John,  Lord  Delaware,  who  had  seen  the  tree  growing  in  this  place,  Anno  1745.  This  stone 
having  been  so  much  mutilated,  and  the  inscription  on  each  of  its  three  sides  defaced,  this  more  durable 
memorial,  with  the  original  inscriptions,  was  erected  in  the  year  1841,  by  Mr.  Sturges  Bourne,  Warden.’ 

We  leave  this  solitary  royal  monument  to  the  swine  that  roam  the  Forest  in 
search  of  beech-mast  and  acorns,  and  to  the  birds  which  make  the  woods  musical 
throughout  its  whole  extent,  and  climb  by  a  track  through  the  greensward  to  Stony 
Cross,  where  luncheon  at  an  excellent  inn  is  welcome  ;  and  we  can  gaze  at  leisure 
upon  another  splendid  view  over  woods  and  uplands.  Then,  repassing  Castle  Mal- 
wood  and  Minstead,  we  return  by  the  beautiful  walks  of  Manor  Wood  and  Park, 


LYNDHURST,  HANTS. 


over  the  breezy  Emery  Down,  affording  another  succession  of  beautiful  views,  to 
Lyndhurst.  The  walk  has  been  long,  and  is  only  a  specimen  of  the  enchanting 
excursions  open  in  all  directions  to  the  lovers  of  forest  scenery,  to  whom  the  very 
names,  as  we  write  them  down,  Boldrewood — Brockenhurst,  Beaulieu  (which  we 
must  pronounce  Bewley  to  be  understood  by  the  natives),  and  many  more — call  up 
memories  of  some  of  the  pleasantest  days  and  happiest  wanderings  that  they  have 
known  in  this  fair  England. 

But,  before  we  leave  Lyndhurst,  let  us  go  up  the  steep  churchyard  steps  and 
enter  the  building.  We  have  noticed  as  characteristic  of  the  district  that  the 
churches  are  placed  on  elevated  mounds,  often  evidently  artificial.  Many  are  fine 
specimens  of  Norman  architecture,  but  this  at  Lyndhurst  is  modern.  Its  chief 
attraction  is  Sir  Frederick  Leighton’s  fresco  of  the  ‘Ten  Virgins,’ over  the  Com¬ 
munion  Table — a  gift  of  the  great  artist  to  the  church,  and  one  of  his  finest  works. 
The  attitudes  of  the  virgins  on  each  side  of  the  central  figure  are  very  varied  and 
thrillingly  impressive.  Those  at  the  right  hand  seem  as  if  they  could  hardly  believe 
64 


STONEHENGE. 


FORESTS  AND  WOODLANDS. 


tneir  own  joy ;  in  most  of  them  there  is  an  exquisite  suggestion  of  humility.  An 
angel  stands  by  the  bridegroom  to  give  them  welcome.  On  the  other  side,  where 
the  foolish  virgins  are  found — some  in  wild  agony,  others  in  sullen  despair — another 
angel  stands  with  outstretched  hand  as  if  to  bid  them  depart ;  and  the  expression  of 
sternness  chastened  by  tender  compassion  in  this  angel’s  face  appears  to  us  the 
crowning  achievement  of  the  painter,  and  one  of  the  most  touching  things  we  have 
ever  seen  in  sacred  art.  The  whole  picture  is  a  commentary  of  unsurpassed  impres¬ 
siveness  on  the  solemn  parable — 

‘Too  late  !  too  late  !  ye  cannot  enter  now  ! 

On  other  parts  of  England’s  forest  scenery,  only  less  noteworthy  than  the  above, 
we  must  not  now  linger. 

The  tourist  who  has  a  day  or  two  at  disposal  may  well  combine  with  his  New 
Forest  excursions  a'  visit  to  Salisbury  Plain,  and  especially  to  Stonehenge,  that 
unique  and  mysterious  British  sanctuary.  The  Plain  itself  is  not  what  many  travelers 
expect  to  find.  In  literature  it  appears  far  more  desolate  and  sterile  than  it  will 
actually  be  found.  Nor  is  it  a  level  expanse  such  as  its  name  suggests.  Once  it 
was  a  bare,  wind-swept,  undulating  plateau,  with  innumerable  tumuli,  and  barrows 
often  marked  by  clumps  of  trees.  The  barrows  and  tumuli  remain,  silent  memorials 
of  nameless  warriors  and  forgotten  armies.  But  the  barrenness  has  given  way  to 
cultivation  ;  and,  though  many  parts  of  the  widespread  tract  are  bleak  enough  in  the 
wild  winds  of  spring  and  autumn,  there  is  not  much  to  distinguish  the  plain  from 
other  rural  scenes  where  an  open  country  is  dotted  over  with  well-kept  farms,  wide 
pasture  lands,  and  villages  sheltered  in  leafy  hollows.  A  pleasant  breezy  drive 
leads  from  Salisbury,  past  the  grassy  mound  of  Old  Sarum,  by  Amesbury  and  ‘  Ves¬ 
pasian’s  Camp,’  toward  the  quiet  hill-brow  where  the  gray  stones  of  the  Druid 
monument  stand  out  against  the  horizon.  To  the  unpracticed  eye  they  at  first  ap¬ 
pear  small — almost  insignificant — in  contrast  with  the  great  sweep  of  the  surround¬ 
ing  plain  ;  but  on  approaching  them  we  apprehend  their  vastness.  After  a  time  it 
becomes  easy  to  reconstruct  in  thought  the  circles  of  the  great  temple  ;  somewhat 
helped,  perhaps,  by  the  pictures  of  Stonehenge  as  restored,  which  the  visitor  will  find 
offered  for  sale  on  the  spot.  But  of  the  mystery  there  is  no  solution,  excepting  that 
some  connection  with  sun-worship  is  proved  by  one  significant  circumstance.  From 
the  central  slab,  or  ‘altar,’  along  one  of  the  avenues,  a  small  stone  is  seen  at  some 
distance  outside  the  circle,  and  this  proves  to  be  exactly  in  a  line  between  the  altar 
and  the  point  of  sunrise  on  the  longest  day.  Such  coincidence  can  hardly  be 
accidental ;  but  what  it  precisely  signifies  no  records  exist  to  show. 

Passing  now  westwards,  we  reach  the  Forest  of  Dean,  less  extensive  than  the 
New  Forest,  but  hardly  less  beautiful, — 

‘  The  queen  of  forests  all  that  west  of  Severn  lie.’ — Drayton. 

It  occupies  the  high  ground  between  the  valleys  of  the  Severn  and  the  Wye.  What 
Lyndhurst  is  to  the  one,  the  Speech  House  is  to  the  other.  The  I'oresters’  Courts 
have  been  held  here  for  centuries,  in  a  large  hall  paneled  with  dark  oak  and  hung 
round  with  deer’s  antlers.  Here  the  ‘  verderers,’  foresters,  ‘  gavellers,’  miners,  and 
Crown  agents  meet  to  discuss  in  open  court  their  various  claims  in  a  sort  of  local 
parliament.  Originally  the  King’s  Lodge,  it  is  now  a  comfortable  inn,  affording 


07 


FORESTS  AND  WOODLANDS. 


good  accommodation  for  the  lovers  of  sylvan  scenery.  The  deer,  with  which  the 
forest  once  abounded,  diminished  in  numbers  up  to  1850,  when  they  were  removed. 
But,  as  in  the  New  Forest,  droves  of  ponies  and  herds  of  swine  roam  at  large  among 
the  trees,  giving  animation  and  interest  to  the  landscape.  A  different  feeling  is 
aroused  by  the  sight  of  furnaces  and  coal-pits  in  different  directions,  indicative  of  the 
mineral  treasures  hidden  beneath  the  fair  surface  of  this  forest.  Ironworks  have  in 
fact  existed  here  from  very  early  times  ;  the  forest  trees  having,  as  in  the  Weald  of 
Sussex,  afforded  an  abundant  supply  of  fuel,  though  (thanks  to  the  coal-beds 
beneath)  without  the  same  result  in  denuding  the  district  of  its  leafy  glories. 

Savernake  Forest,  in  Wiltshire,  the  property  of  the  Marquis  of  Ailesbury,  is 
the  only  English  forest  belonging  to  a  subject,  and  is  especially  remarkable  for  its 
avenues  of  trees.  One,  of  magnificent  beeches,  is  nearly  four  miles  in  length,  and  is 
intersected  at  one  point  of  its  course  by  three  separate  ‘walks,’  or  forest  vistas, 
placed  at  such  angles  as,  with  the  avenue  itself,  to  command  eight  points  of  the 
compass.  The  effect  is  unique  and  beautiful,  the  artificial  character  of  the  arrange¬ 
ment  being  amply  compensated  by  the  exceeding  luxuriance  of  the  thickset  trees, 
and  the  soft  loveliness  of  the  verdant  flowery  glades  which  they  inclose.  The 
smooth,  bright  foliage  of  the  beech  is  interspersed  with  the  darker  shade  of  the  fir, 
while  towering  elms  and  majestic,  wide-spreading  oaks  diversify  the  line  of  view  in 
endless,  beautiful  variety.  At  one  point,  a  clump  of  trees  will  be  reached — the 
veterans  of  the  forest,  with  moss-clad  trunks  and  gnarled,  half-leafless  branches  ;  the 
chief  being  known  as  the  King  Oak,  but  sometimes  called  the  Duke’s,  from  the  Lord 
Protector  Somerset,  with  whom  this  tree  was  a  favorite.  The  railway  from  Hunger- 
ford  to  Marlborough  skirts  this  forest,  the  southern  portion  of  which  is  known  as- 
Tottenham  Park.  An  obelisk,  erected  on  one  of  its  highest  points  in  1781,  to  com¬ 
memorate  the  recovery  of  George  III.,  forms  an  easily  recognizable  landmark, 
and  may  also  guide  the  wanderer  in  the  forest  glades,  who  might  else  be  bewildered 
by  the  very  uniformity  of  the  long  lines  of  foliage.  On  the  whole,  if  this  Forest  of 
Savernake  has  not  the  vast  extent  or  the  wild  natural  beauty  of  some  other  forests, 
it  has  all  the  charm  that  the  richest  luxuriance  can  give  ;  while  some  of  its  noblest 
trees  will  be  found  away  from  the  great  avenues,  on  the  gentle  slopes  or  in  the 
mossy  dells  which  diversify  the  surface  of  this  most  beautiful  domain.  Nor  will  the 
visitor  in  spring-time  fail  to  be  delighted  by  the  great  banks  of  rhododendron  and 
azalea,  which  at  many  parts  add  color  and  splendor  to  the  scene. 

Among  the  smaller  woodlands,  the  Burnham  Beeches  claim  special  notice.  They 
are  reached  by  a  charming  drive  of  five  or  six  miles  from  Maidenhead.  The  road 
leads  at  first  through  one  of  the  most  highly  cultivated  and  fertile  districts  in  Eng¬ 
land,  and  then  enters  Dropmore  Park,  with  its  stately  avenues  of  cedar  and  pine,  and 
some  of  the  finest  araucarias  in  Europe.  The  Beeches  occupy  a  knoll  which  rises, 
from  the  plain,  over  which  it  commands  splendid  views,  Windsor  Castle  and  the 
valley  of  the  Thames  being  conspicuous  objects  in  the  landscape.  The  trees  are 
many  of  them  of  immense  girth  ;  but,  having  been  pollarded — tradition  says  by 
Cromwell’s  troopers — they  do  not  attain  a  great  height.  They  are  thus  wanting  in 
the  feathery  grace  and  sweep  which  form  the  characteristic  beauty  of  the  beech  ;  but, 
in  exchange  for  this,  the  gnarled,  twisted  branches  are  in  the  very  highest  degree 
picturesque,  and  to  the  wearied  Londoner  few  ways  of  spending  a  summer’s  day  can 
be  more  enjoyable  than  a  ramble  over  the  Burnham  Knoll,  with  its  turfy  slopes  and 
6S 


FORESTS  AND  WOODLANDS. 


BURNHAM. 

shaded  dells,  or,  better  still,  a  picnic  with  some  chosen  friends  in  the  shadow  of  one 
or  other  of  these  stupendous  trees. 

Space  will  not  allow  us  to  do  more  than  refer  to  the  forests  of  Epping  and 
Hainault,  so  invaluable  to  wearied  Londoners  ;  or  of  Sherwood,  with  its  memories 
of  Robin  Hood  and  his  ‘  merry  men  ;  or  of  Charnwood,  with  its  wooded  heights  and 
picturesque  ruins  ;  or  of  Needwood,  between  the  Dove  and  the  I  rent  ;  01  ot  \\  mi- 
tlebury  and  Delamere,  with  many  others.  I  he  names  recall  the  memories  of 
happy  days  spent  beneath  their  leafy  screen,  or  in  wandering  over  breezy  heights, 
with  grateful  thoughts  of — 

o  o 

‘  That  unwearied  love 

Which  planned  and  built,  and  still  upholds  this  world, 

So  clothed  with  beauty  for  rebellious  man.’ 


69 


WARWICK  CASTLE. 


‘  The  stately  homes  of  England, 

How  beautiful  they  stand, 

Amidst  their  tall  ancestral  trees 
O’er  all  the  pleasant  land  ! 

The  deer  across  their  greensward  bound, 
Through  shade  and  sunny  gleam, 

And  the  swan  glides  past  them  with  the  sound 
Of  some  rejoicing  stream.’ 


Mrs.  Hemans. 


shakspere’s  birthplace,  as  restored. 


SHAKSPERE’S  COUNTRY. 


THE  traveler  who  would  enter  into  the  full  charm  of  ‘  Shakspere’s  country’ is 
recommended  to  start  from  the  quaint  and  ancient  city  of  Coventry,  and  to 
pursue  the  high  road  to  Warwick,  taking,  Kenilworth  in  his  way.  There  is 
scarcely  a  walk  in  England  more  perfect  in  its  own  kind  of  beauty  than  the  five 
miles  from  Coventry  to  Kenilworth.  A  wide,  well-kept  road  follows,  almost  in  a 
■straight  line,  the  undulations  of  the  hills.  Soon  after  leaving  the  city,  a  broad, 
flower-enameled  coppice,  open  to  the  road,  is  reached  ;  then  the  hedgerows  are 
flanked  on  both  sides  with  noble  elms,  forming  a  stately  avenue,  through  which 
glimpses  are  ever  and  anon  obtained  of  purple,  wood-crested  hills  in  the  distance. 
Broad  rolling  pastures,  and  cornfields,  rich  in  promise,  stretch  away  on  either  hand; 
the  grassy  roadside  and  high  hedge-banks,  showing  the  deep  red  subsoil  of  the  sand¬ 
stone,  or  variegated  clays  of  the  red  marls,  are  bright  with  wild  flowers,  and  the  air 
is  musical  with  the  song  of  birds.  Travelers  are  few  ;  the  railway  scream  in  the  dis¬ 
tance,  to  the  left,  suggests  that  all  who  are  in  a  hurry  to  reach  their  destination  have 
taken  another  route ;  if  it  be  holiday  time,  parties  of  young  men  on  Coventry 
bicycles  are  sure  to  flash  past;  but  it  is  our  delight  to  linger  and  enjoy.  We  are, 
as  Thomas  Fuller  says,  in  the  ‘  Medi-terranean  ’  part  of  England;  and  English 
scenery  nowhere  displays  a  more  characteristic  charm. 


73 


SHAKSPERE  'S  COUNTRY. 


Kenilworth  old  church  and  the  castle  at  length  are  reached  ;  the  latter,  a  stately 
ruin.  The  visitor  will  duly  note  Caesar’s  Tower,  the  original  keep,  with  its  walls,  in 
some  parts,  sixteen  feet  thick  ;  then  the  remains  of  the  magnificent  banqueting  hall, 
built  by  John  of  Gaunt,  and,  lastly,  the  dilapidated  towers  erected  by  Robert 
Dudley,  Earl  of  Leicester,  one  part  of  which  bears  the  name  of  poor  Amy  Robsart. 
No  officious  cicerone  is  likely  to  offer  his  services;  a  trifling  gate  fee  opens  the 
place  freely  to  all,  either  to  rest  on  the  greensward,  or  to  climb  the  battered  ram¬ 
parts  ;  to  survey,  at  one  view,  the  ancient  moat,  the  castle  garden,  the  tilt-yard, 
where  knights  met  in  mimic  battle  ;  the  bed  of  the  lake,  where  sea-fights  were 
imitated  for  a  monarch’s  sport — in  short,  the  impressive  memorials  of  a  fashion  in 
life  and  act  which  has  long  since  yielded  to  nobler  things.  ‘  The  massy  ruins,’  says 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  ‘only  serve  to  show  what  their  splendor  once  was,  and  to. 


KENILWORTH  CASTLE,  FROM  THE  TILT-YARD. 


impress  on  the  musing  visitor  the  transitory  value  of  human  possessions,  and  the- 
happiness  of  those  who  enjoy  a  humble  lot  in  industrious  contentment.’ 

The  town  of  Kenilworth  is  of  considerable  size,  containing,  at  the  last  census, 
more  than  3000  inhabitants.  The  traveler  may  rest  here,  or  in  a  quaint  little  hostelry 
close  to  the  castle  gates,  not  forgetting  to  visit  the  ancient  church — that  at  the  other 
end  of  the  town  is  modern,  and  need  not  detain  him.  After  due  refreshment,  he  will 
probably  be  in  the  humor  for  another  five  miles’  walk,  or  drive,  along  a  road  almost 
equal  in  beauty  to  that  by  which  he  came,  to  Warwick,  calling  at  Guy’s  Cliff  by  the 
way.  He  had  better  make  up  his  mind,  for  the  time  at  least,  to  believe  in  Guy,  ‘  the 
Saxon  giant,’  who  slew  the  ‘dun  cow,’  and,  after  a  life  of  doughty  deeds,  retired  to 
a  hermitage  here,  where  the  Avon  opens  into  a  lake-like  transparent  pool,  at  the  foot 
of  the  exquisitely  wooded  cliff.  The  cave  of  the  giant’s  retreat  may  be  seen  ;  and 
the  traveler  will  be  charmed  by  the  fair  mansion,  on  the  one  side  overhanging  the 
Avon,  and  on  the  other  opening  down  a  long  avenue,  flowery  and  verdant,  to  the 
high  road. 


74 


WARWICK  CASTLE 


SHAKSPERE'S  COUNTRY. 


Warwick  Castle  is  so  frequently  visited  that  it  needs  little  description.  The 
winding  road,  cut  out  of  the  solid  rock  from  the  lodge  to  the  castle  gate,  is  a  fitting 
approach  to  the  stately  fortress-palace,  and  well  prepares  the  visitor  for  what  is  to 
follow.  Some  will  prefer  to  traverse  the  gardens,  so  far  as  watchful  custodians  per¬ 
mit,  turning  aside  to  the  solid-looking  Gothic  conservatory  to  see  the  great  Warwick 
vase,  brought  from  fair  Tivoli ;  others  will  follow  the  courteous  housekeeper  down 
the  long  suite  of  castle  halls,  noting  the  glorious  views  from  the  deep  embayed  win¬ 
dows,  duly  admiring  the  bed  in  which  Queen  Anne  once  slept,  with  the  portrait  of 
her  majesty,  plump  and  rubicund,  on  the  opposite  wall.  The  logs  heaped  up,  as  logs 
have  been  for  centuries,  in  readiness  for  the  great  hall  fire,  carry  the  mind  back  to 
olden  fashions  ;  the  inlaid  table  of  precious  stones,  said  to  have  been  worth  ten  thous¬ 
and  pounds,  but  recently  injured  by  some  silly  tourist,  excites  a  languid  curiosity; 


BEAUCHAMP  CHAPEL,  ST.  MARY'S  CHURCH,  WARWICK. 


the  helmet  of  Oliver  Cromwell,  an  authentic  relic,  suggests  many  a  thought  of  the 
great  brain  which  it  once  enclosed;  and,  while  other  items  in  the  antique  show  pass 
as  phantasmagoria  before  the  bewildered  attention,  there  are  some  portraits  on  the 
walls  to  have  seen  which  is  a  lasting  pleasure  of  memory.  It  is  a  happy  thing  that 
these  were  spared  by  the  fire  of  1871  ;  justly  counted  as  a  national  calamity  rather 
than  a  family  misfortune.  The  traces  of  the  conflagration  are  now  almost  wholly 
removed,  although  some  priceless  treasures  have  been  irrecoverably  lost.  At  the 
lodge,  by  the  castle  gate,  there  is  a  museum  of  curiosities,  which  will  interest  the 
believers  in  the  great  ‘Guy,’  and  will  amuse  others.  For  there  is  the  giant’s  ‘por¬ 
ridge  pot’  of  bell-metal,  vast  in  circumference  and  resonant  in  ring;  with  his  staff, 
his  horse’s  armor,  and,  to  crown  all,  some  ribs  of  the  ‘dun  cow’  herself!  What  if, 
in  sober  truth,  some  last  lingerer  of  a  species  now  extinct  roamed  over  the  great 
forest  of  Arden,  the  terror  of  the  country,  until  Sir  Guy  wrought  deliverance? 

Warwick  itself  need  not  detain  us  long;  the  church,  however,  demands  a  visit; 
and  the  Beauchamp  Chapel,  with  its  monuments,  is  one  of  the  finest  in  England. 


77 


SHAKSPERE'S  COUNTRY. 


But  the  pedestrian  will  probably  elect  to  spend  the  night  at  Leamington,  close  by, 
before  continuing  his  pilgrimage.  A  visit  to  the  beautiful  Jephson  Gardens,  with 
their  wealth  of  evergreen  oaks,  soft  turfy  lawn,  and  broad  fair  water,  will  afford  him 
a  pleasant  evening  ;  and  the  next  morning  will  see  him  en  route  for  Stratford-on- 
Avon.  Again  let  him  take  the  road,  drinking  in  the  influence  of  the  pleasant  War¬ 
wickshire  scene  :  quiet  rural  loveliness,  varying  with  every  mile,  and  glimpses  of  the 
silver  Avon  at  intervals,  enhancing  the  charm.  A  slight  detour  will  lead  to  Hamp¬ 
ton  Lucy  and  Charlecote  House  and  Park,  memorable  for  the  exploits  of  Shak- 
spere’s  youth,  and  for  the  worshipful  dignity  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  the  presumed 
•original  of  Mr.  Justice  Shallow.  The  park  having  been  skirted,  or  crossed,  the 

tourist  proceeds  three  or  four  miles  farther 
by  a  good  road,  and  enters  Stratford-on- 
Avon  by  a  stone  bridge  of  great  length, 
crossing  the  Avon  and  adjacent  low-lying 
meadows.  The  bridge,  which  dates  from 
the  reign  of  Henry  VII.,  has  been  widened, 
on  an  ingenious  plan,  by  a  footpath  sup¬ 
ported  on  a  kind  of  iron  balcony.  It  is  easy, 
however,  to  imagine  its  exact  appearance 
when  Shakspere  paced  its  narrow  roadway, 
or  hung  over  its  parapet  to  watch  the 
skimming  swallow  or  the  darting  trout  and 
minnow. 

This  Warwickshire  town  has  been  so 
often  and  so  exhaustively  described  that 
we  may  well  forbear  from  any  minute  de¬ 
tail.  Every  visitor  knows,  with  tolerable 
accuracy,  what  he  has  to  expect.  He  finds, 
as  he  had  anticipated,  a  quiet  country 
town,  very  much  like  other  towns  ;  neither 
obtrusively  modern,  nor  quaintly  antique — 
in  one  word,  commonplace,  save  for  the 
all-pervading  presence  and  memory  of 
statue  of  shakspere  in  front  of  stratford  Shakspere.  The  house  in  Henley  Street, 
town  hall.  where  he  is  said  to  have  been  born,  will 

be  first  visited,  of  course  ;  then  the  tourist  will  walk  along  the  High  Street^ 
noting  the  Shakspere  memorials  in  the  shop-windows,  looking  up  as  he  passes  to 
the  fine  statue  of  the  poet,  placed  by  Garrick  in  front  of  the  Town  Hall.  At  the 
site  of  New  Place,  now  an  open,  well-kept  garden,  with  here  and  there  some  of  the 
shattered  foundations  of  the  poet’s  house,  protected  by  wire-work,  on  the  green¬ 
sward,  the  visitor  will  add  his  tribute  of  wonder,  if  not  of  contempt,  to  the  twin 
memories  of  Sir  Hugh  Clopton,  who  pulled  down  Shakspere’s  house  in  one  genera¬ 
tion,  and  of  the  Rev.  Francis  Gastrell,  who  cut  down  Shakspere’s  mulberry-tree  in 
another.  Just  opposite  are  the  guild  chapel,  the  guildhall,  with  the  grammar  school, 
where  the  poet,  no  doubt,  received  his  education  ;  and,  after  some  further  walking, 
the  extremity  of  the  town  will  be  reached,  where  a  little  gate  opens  to  a  charming 
avenue  of  overarching  lime-trees,  leading  to  the  church.  Before  he  enters,  let  him 

78 


STRATFORD-ON-AVON  CHURCH. 


■ 


* 


SNA K S P ERE  ' S  COUNTRY. 


pass  round  to  the  other  side,  where  the  churchyard  gently  slopes  to  the  Avon,  and 
drink  in  the  tranquillity  and  beauty  of  the  rustic  scene.  Then,  after  gaining  admis¬ 
sion,  he  will  go  straight  to  the  chancel  and  gaze  upon  those  which,  after  all,  are  the 
only  memorials  of  the  poet  which  possess  a  really  satisfying  value,  the  monument 
and  the  tomb. 

As  all  the  world  knows,  the  tomb  is  a  dark  slab,  lying  in  the  chancel,  the  in¬ 
scription  turned  to  the  east.  No  name  is  given,  only  the  lines,  here  copied  from  a 
photograph  : 

‘Good  Frend  for  Iesvs  sake  forbeare 

TO  DIGG  THE  DVST  ENCLOASED  HEARE  : 

Blest  be  y°  man  y*  spares  thes  stones, 

And  cvrst  be  he  y*  moves  my  bones.’ 


AVENUE  TO  STRATFORD-ON-AVON  CHURCH  DOOR. 


These  lines  are  not  the  only  doggerel,  whether  justly  or  unjustly,  fathered  upon 
Shakspere.  The  prostrate  figure  on  a  tomb  in  the  east  wall  of  the  chancel,  repre¬ 
senting  Shakspere’s  contemporary  and  intimate,  John-a-Combe,  suggests  another 
stanza,  even  inferior  in  taste  and  diction.  But  we  have  no  room  now  for  such 
recollections.  Above  us,  on  the  left,  is  the  monument  of  the  poet,  colored,  accord¬ 
ing  to  the  fashion  of  the  time,  with  scarlet  doublet,  black  sleeveless  gown,  florid 
sheeks,  and  gentle  hazel  eyes.  How  Mr.  Malone,  the  commentator,  not  content 

Si 


SHAKSPERE'S  COUNTRY. 


with  ‘improving’  the  plays,  caused  the  bust  also  to  be  improved  by  a  coating  of 
white  paint,  how  the  barbarism  was  removed  in  1 86 1 ,  and  the  statue  restored,  is  a 
tale  often  told.  The  effigy  certainly  existed  within  seven  years  of  Shakspere’s 
death,  so  that,  in  all  probability,  we  have  a  faithful  representation  of  the  poet  as  his 

contemporaries  knew  him.  The  following 
Latin  and  English  inscriptions  are  beneath 
his  bust  : 


'Judicio  Pylivm,  genio  socratem,  arte  maronem 
tegit,  popvlvs  mseret,  olympvs  habet.’ 


terra 


(In  judgment  a  Nestor,  in  genius  a  Socrates,  in  art 
a  Virgil  :  Earth  covers  him,  the  people  mourns  him, 
heaven  possesses  him.) 

‘  Stay  Passenger,  why  goest  thov  by  so  fast, 
Read,  if  thov  canst  whom  enviovs  death  hath 

PLAST 

Within  this  monvment,  Shakspere,  with  whome 
Qvick  nat\re  dide  ;  whose  name  doth  deck  y3 

TOMBE 

Far  MORE  THAN  COST  ;  SITH  ALL  Y*  HE  HATH  WRITT 

Leaves  living  art  bvt  page  to  serve  his  witt. 

Obiit  an0  Doi.  1616.  Hitatis  53  die  23  Ap.‘ 

The  inscription  is  clumsy  enough,  but 
proves  that  the  poet’s  greatness  was  not,  as 
sometimes  alleged,  unrecognized  in  his  own 
generation.  The  epitaph  on  Mistress  Su¬ 
sanna  Hall,  Shakspere’s  favorite  daughter, 
struck  a  higher  note.  Thus  it  began  : — 

‘  Witty  above  her  sex — but  that’s  not  all — 

Wise  to  salvation,  was  good  Mistress  Hall. 
Something  of  Shakspere  was  in  that  ;  but  this 
Wholly  of  Him  with  Whom  she’s  now  in  bliss.’ 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  this  inscrip¬ 
tion  has  been  effaced,  to  make  room  for  the 
epitaph  of  some  obscure  descendant.  That 
to  Shakspere’s  widow,  the  wife  of  his  youth, 
Anne  Hathaway,  however,  remains  as  placed  over  her  grave  by  her  son  ;  there 
is  something  in  it  pathetically  and  nobly  Christian.  It  is  in  Latin,  and  may 
be  rendered  freely  :  ‘  My  Mother  :  thou  gavest  me  milk  and  life  :  alas,  for  me,  that 
I  can  but  repay  thee  with  a  sepulchre  !  Would  that  some  good  angel  might  roll 
the  stone  away,  and  thy  form  come  forth  in  the  Saviours  likeness  !  But  my  pray¬ 
ers  avail  not.  Come  quickly,  O  Christ  !  then  shall  my  Mother,  though  enclosed  in 
the  tomb,  arise  and  mount  to  heaven  !  ’ 

Before  leaving  the  church  we  may  note  some  other  monuments  which  in  any 
other  place  would  be  considered  worth  attention  ;  as  well  as  a  stained  glass  window, 
illustrating  from  Scripture  Shakspere’s  Seven  Ages  of  Man.  Moses  the  infant, 

82 


THE  MONUMENT. 


SH A  K SP ERE  'S  CO  UN  TR  Y. 


Jacob  the  lover,  Deborah  the  judge,  and  one  or  two  other  representations  are  inter¬ 
esting,  but  the  observer  feels  that  the  types  of  character  are  not  Shakspere’s. 

The  day’s  explorations  are  not  yet  over.  The  epitaph  on  Anne  Hathaway's 
tomb,  if  nothing  else,  has  quickened  our  desire  to  know  something  more  of  her  sur¬ 
roundings  in  those  days  when  Shakspere  won  and  wooed  her  in  her  rustic  home. 
Retracing  our  steps  through  the  town,  we  are  directed  to  a  field-path  bearing 
straight  for  Shottery,  a  village  but  a  mile  distant.  It  is  not  difficult  to  picture  the 
youthful  lover,  out  here  in  the  fair  open  country,  among  the  wild  flowers  which  line 
the  walk,  and  which  he  has  so  well  described  ;  for  there  are  few  traditions  of  Strat¬ 
ford-on-Avon  better  authenticated  than  that  which  represents  this  as  Shakspere’s 


INTERIOR  OF  STRATFORD-ON-AVON  CHURCH. 

(  The  man  is  pointing  to  Shakspere' s  tomb:  the  monument  is  that  on  the  north  -wait,  immediately 
to  the  right  of  the  door.  The  recumbent  figure  is  that  of  John-a-Combe.) 


walk  in  the  days  when  he  ‘went  courting.’  The  village  is  a  straggling  one,  with  a 
look  of  comfort  about  its  farmsteads  and  cottages  ;  and,  at  the  farthest  extremity 
from  Stratford,  in  a  pleasant  dell  opposite  a  willow-shaded  stream,  we  find  the  cot¬ 
tage,  not  much  altered,  it  may  be,  in  externals,  since  the  poet,  then  a  lad  of  eigh¬ 
teen,  there  found  his  bride.  The  capacious  chimney-corner,  where  no  doubt  the 
lovers  sat,  is  genuine  ;  and  other  antique  relics,  from  a  carved  bedstead  to  an  old 
Bible,  carry  the  mind  back,  at  least,  to  the  era  of  the  poet ;  while  the  garden  and 
orchard,  with  the  well  of  pure  spring  water,  must  be  much  as  Shakspere  saw  them. 

And  now,  having  returned  to  our  comfortable  hotel — where  almost  every  room, 


SHAKSPERE  'S  COUNTRY. 


by  the  way,  is  named  after 
one  of  the  dramas,  ours  be¬ 
ing  ‘  All’s  Well  that  Ends  Well  ’ — 
what  was  the  net  result  of  the  visit  in 
regard  to  the  personality  and  history 
of  the  great  poet  ?  It  may  seem  a  anne  hathaway’s  cottage. 

strange  thing  to  confess,  but  the  ef¬ 
fect  of  the  whole  was  to  put  Shakspere  himself  farther  from  us,  and  to  deepen  the  mys¬ 
tery  which  every  student  of  his  life  and  works  finds  so  perplexing.  For,  save  the 
monument  and  the  tomb,  there  was  absolutely  nothing  to  tell  of  the  poet’s  life  ;  no 
scrap  of  his  writing,  no  book  known  to  have  been  his,  no  original  authentic  record  of 
his  words  and  deeds,  no  contemporary  portrait,  no  object,  whether  article  of  furniture, 
pen,  inkstand,  or  other  implement  of  daily  use,  associated  with  his  name.  Strange 
that  a  generation  which,  as  we  have  seen,  so  honored  his  genius  and  character, 
should  not  have  preserved  the  poorest  or  smallest  memorial  of  his  life  among  them  ! 
True,  there  is  an  old,  worm-eaten  desk  in  the  birth-place,  at  which  he  may  have  sat 
in  the  grammar-school  ;  in  a  room  above  the  seed-shop  in  the  town  there  is  a  rude 
piece  of  carving,  representing  David  and  Goliath,  which  once  ornamented  a  room 
of  the  house  in  Henley  Street,  and  bears  an  inscription,  ‘  said  to  have  been  com¬ 
posed  by  Shakspere,’  a.d.  1606.  Let  our  readers  judge  : — 


‘  Goliath  comes  with  sword  and  spear, 
And  David  with  his  sling  : 
Although  Goliath  rage  and  swear 
Down  David  doth  him  bring.’ 


For  the  rest,  the  relics  are  evidently  imported  :  an  ancient  bedstead,  old-fash¬ 
ioned  chairs,  and  the  like  ;  interesting  in  their  way,  but  with  nothing  to  tell  us  of 
the  poet.  He  remains  to  the  most  zealous  relic-hunter  as  great  a  mystery  as 
Homer  himself.  Or  if  in  anything  here  we  see  the  poet,  it  is  in  those  scenes  of 
84 


SHAKSPERE  'S  COUNTRY. 


external  nature  which  he  has  so  vividly  pictured.  We  find  him  among  the  flowers  ; 
beside  the 

‘  bank  whereon  the  wild  thyme  blows, 

Where  oxlips  and  the  nodding  violet  grows, 

Quite  over-canopied  with  luscious  woodbine, 

With  sweet  musk-roses  and  with  eglantine.’ 

With  a  happy  ingenuity  the  garden  of  the  house  in  Henley  Street,  now  prettily 
and  daintily  kept,  has  been  planted  to  a  great  extent  with  Shakspere’s  flowers  ; 
‘pansies  for  thoughts,’  ‘rosemary  for  remembrance,’  with  ‘ columbines,’  the  ‘blue- 
veined  violets,’  the  wild  thyme,  woodbine,  musk-rose,  and  many  more.  His  works 
are  his  true  monument  ;  and  of  these  there  is  in  the  same  house  a  very  large  and 
noble  collection,  with  a  whole  library  of  literature  bearing  upon  them,  gathered  with 
admirable  care.  Yet  how  few  autobiographical  details  do  the  volume  contain  ! 
How  hopeless  the  task  of  constructing,  even  from  the  sonnets,  a  connected  picture 
of  his  life  and  career!  And  of  the  half-dozen  anecdotes  which  have  in  one  way  or 
other  descended  to  us  of  his  words  and  ways,  who  can  say  that  any  detail  is  true  ? 

It  is,  perhaps,  from  the  portraits,  after  all,  that  we  may  gain  the  most  trust¬ 
worthy  impression  of  the  poet’s  individuality.  That  on  the  tomb  is  for  obvious 
reasons  the  most  valuable.  There  it  has  been,  in  the  sight  of  all  men,  from  the 
very  days  of  Shakspere.  The  eyes  of  his  widow  and  of  their  children  must  often 
have  rested  upon  it ;  and 'there  can  be  no  doubt  that  it  presents  the  true  aspect  of 
the  man.  The  engravings  of  the  bust,  and  even  the  photographs,  seem  to  us  to 
exaggerate  the  calm,  serene  expression  of  the  countenance.  Partly,  it  may  be,  from 
the  effect  of  the  coloring  on  the  full  and  shapely  cheeks,  there  is  an  air  almost  of 
joviality  about  the  face.  It  is  much  more  easy  to  recognize  the  Warwickshire 
Squire  of  New  Place  than  to  feel  the  presence  of  the  poet  of  all  time.  There  is,  in 
the  Henley  Street  house,  a  portrait,  lately  discovered,  with  a  somewhat  remarkable 
history.  The  antiquity  of  this  portrait  seems  indubitable  ;  but  the  face  seems  a 
copy,  and,  so  far  as  we  could  judge  without  seeing  the  two  side  by  side,  a  very 
exact  copy,  of  that  on  the  monument.  For  the  high,  intellectual  cast  of  features 
which  we  naturally  associate  with  Shakspere,  we  must  go  rather  to  the  ‘  Chandos 
portrait,’  now  in  the  National  Portrait  Gallery,  or  to  the  terra-cotta  bust,  disinterred 
in  1845  from  the  site  of  the  old  theater  in  Lincoln’s  Inn  Fields,  and  presented  by  the 
Duke  of  Devonshire  to  the  Garrick  Club.  In  a  somewhat  rough  fashion,  the 
Droeshout  portrait,  prefixed  to  the  first  folio  edition  of  the  plays,  in  1623,  gives  a 
similar  impression  of  power. 

But  most  of  all  is  the  greatness  of  Shakspere  brought  home  to  us  by  the  simple 
record  of  the  names  of  those  who,  from  all  quarters  of  the  world,  have  come  to  this 
little  Warwickshire  town  to  do  homage  to  his  memory.  In  all  the  world  there  is  no 
shrine  of  pilgrimage  like  this,  not  only  in  the  number  of  the  visitants,  but  in  their 
wonderful  variety  of  character,  temperament,  and  belief.  The  power  of  the  spell 
shows  the  magician.  The  fading  penciled  inscriptions  which  cover  the  walls  of  the 
chamber  in  Henley  Street ;  the  pages  of  the  autograph  books;  the  words  in  which 
visitors  have  recorded  their  impressions,1  attest  the  strange  attractiveness  and  power 
of  this  one  genius.  Perhaps  the  most  interesting  of  the  autograph  books  is  that 

'See  Washington  Irving’s  Sketch  Book,  Hugh  Miller’s  England  and  itt  People,  William  Howitt’s  Visits  to  Remarkable 
Places,  Mrs.  Stowe’s  Sunny  Memories. 


85 


S/LA  KSP ERE '  S  CO  UN  TR  Y. 


which  was  removed  from  the  house  in  Henley  Street  many  years  ago,  and  is  now  to 
be  seen  in  the  room  over  the  seed-shop,  to  which  we  have  referred  already.  It 
seems  to  have  been  purchased  and  presented  by  an  American  gentleman,  Mr.  T.  H. 
Perkins,  of  Boston,  in  1812;  and  its  pages  contain  the  autographs  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  Lord  Byron,  Miss  Edgeworth,  Miss  Mitford,  Joanna  Baillie,  James  Mont¬ 
gomery,  Charles  Dickens,  Professors  Sedgwick  and  Whewell,  ‘William  Duke  of 
Clarence,’  ‘Arthur  Duke  of  Wellington,’  with  a  host  beside.  A  thoughtful  hour 
may  well  be  spent  in  turning  the  well-worn  pages,  and  in  meditating  on  ‘  the  vanity 
and  glory  of  literature.’ 

For  there  was  one  point  in  which  even  Shakspere  failed  ;  and  the  admiring 
reverence  with  which  we  join  the  throng  of  pilgrims  to  the  shrine  never  passes  into 
worship.  We  mean,  of  course,  such  ‘  worship  ’  as  a  merely  human  being  may 
supposably  claim  ;  and,  in  view  of  the  highest  possibilities  of  our  nature,  we  mark  in 
Shakspere  a  certain  limitation  on  the  heavenward  side  of  his  genius.  The  point  at 
,  ,  which  intellectual  sympathy  and  admir¬ 

ing  affection  pass  into  adoration  is  the 
point  at  which  we  are  raised  beyond  our¬ 
selves,  and  made  conscious  of  the  infinite. 
Never  will  our  moral  nature  consent  to 
unite  with  our  reason  and  our  heart  in 
yielding  its  deepest  reverence,  until  it  is 
uplifted  into  that  sphere  in  which  we  can 
only  walk  by  faith,  and  from  which  we 
can  look  down  upon  earthly  things 
dwarfed  and  humbled  by  the  comparison 
with  the  illimitable  beyond. 

Now  Shakspere’s  genius  belongs 
essentially  to  the  lower  sphere.  On 
earth  he  is  the  master.  Every  phase  of 
nature,  every  subtlety  of  the  intellect, 
every  winding  of  the  heart,  is  familiar  to  him.  To  use  the  com 
parison,  often  repeated  because  always  felt  to  be  so  just,  his  won¬ 
derful  mind  was  the  mirror  of  all  earthly  shapes  and  various  human  energies. 
His  own  idiosyncrasy  never  appears  ;  the  mirror  is  absolutely  colorless  and 
true.  His  genius  is  universal  ;  in  reading  him  we  are  but  surveying  the  face? 
of  nature.  To  many  a  subtle  criticism  the  answer  has  been  given,  Shakspere 
surely  never  meant  this  !  The  reply  may  be,  Perhaps  not,  but  Nature  meant 
it  ;  and,  therefore,  we  have  a  right  to  find  it  there !  Such  is  the  highest 
achievement  of  literature ,  whose  business  it  is  to  reflect  the  facts  of  the  world,  of 
society,  of  the  human  heart — plentifully  to  declare  the  thing  as  it  is,  and  compen¬ 
diously  to  reduce  this  round  world  into  the  microcosm  of  a  book.  Here  is  Shak¬ 
spere’s  transcendent  power,  and  the  secret  of  his  supremacy  among  writers.  He  is 
simply  the  greatest  literary  man  of  the  modern  world.  The  transparency  of  the 
mirror,  to  return  to  the  illustration,  is  maintained,  not  only  by  the  absence  of  intru¬ 
sive  individuality,  but  by  his  perfect  mastery  over  the  instrument  of  expression.  It 
is  worth  while  to  read  his  dramas  over  again,  as  a  study  of  language  alone.  No 
English  writer  has  ever  approached  Shakspere  in  the  precision,  picturesqueness,  and 
86 


KITCHEN  IN  SHAK¬ 
SPERE’S  HOUSE. 


SHAKSPERE'S  COUNTRY. 


the  finished,  yet  seemingly  careless,  beauty  of  his  diction.  His  prose  is  even  more 
marvelous  than  his  poetry.  In  the  sense  in  which  we  use  the  word  ‘  classic,’  his 
works  may  truly  be  called  the  foremost  classic,  not  only  of  Great  Britain,  but  of  the 
world. 

What,  then,  is  the  defect  which  will  forever  prevent  Shakspere  from  receiving 
the  entire  homage  of  the  heart  of  man  ?  In  a  sentence,  the  mirror  is  turned  toward 
earth  alone,  and  in  its  very  completeness  hides  heaven  from  the  view.  ‘  It  would  be 
impossible,’  says  a  writer  of  our  own  day,  ‘  to  find  a  more  remarkable  example  of  a 
genius  wide  as  the  world,  yet  not  in  any  sense  above  the  world,  than  our  great  Eng¬ 
lish  poet’s.’  And  again,  4  It  would  be  almost  impossible  to  find  any  great  Christian 
poet  whose  type  of  imagination  is  so  entirely  and  singularly  contrasted  with  that  of 
the  Bible,  or  in  whom  that  peculiar  faculty  which,  for  want  of  a  better  term,  we  are 
forced  to  call  the  thirst  for  the  supernatural ,  is  more  remarkably  absent.’ 

This  statement  we  accept,  in  full  remembrance  of  the  morals  manifold,  the 
theological  references,  and  Scriptural  parallels,  which  are  scattered  through  the 


poet’s  writings.  The  late  Bishop  Wordsworth,  of  St.  Andrew’s,  and  others  have 
spent  much  labor,  not  altogether  unprofitably,  in  showing  that  Shakspere  knew  his 
Bible :  while,  oddly  enough,  among  the  passages  expunged  by  the  estimable 
Bowdler,  the  Biblical  references  occupy  a  considerable  place,  as  though  it  had  been 
profanity  to  introduce  them  in  such  a  connection.  The  most  is  made  of  Shakspere’s 
religiousness  by  Archbishop  Trench,  in  a  sermon  preached  at  Stratford-on-Avon  at 
the  Shakspere  Tercentenary,  in  1864. 

4  He  knew  the  deep  corruption  of  our  fallen  nature,  the  desperate  wickedness  of 
the  heart  of  man  ;  else  he  would  never  have  put  into  the  mouth  of  a  prince  of  stain¬ 
less  life  such  a  confession  as  this  :  "  I  am  myself  indifferent  honest  :  but  yet  I  could 

accuse  me  of  such  things  that  it  were  better  my  mother  had  not  borne  me  ; . 

with  more  offenses  at  my  beck  than  I  have  thoughts  to  put  them  in,  imagination 
to  give  them  shape,  or  time  to  act  them  in.”  He  has  set  forth  the  scheme  of  our 
redemption  in  words  as  lovely  as  have  ever  flowed  from  the  lips  of  uninspired 
man  : — • 


87 


SHAKESPERE'S  COUNTRY. 


“  Why,  all  the  souls  that  live  were  forfeit  once, 

And  He  that  might  the  vantage  best  have  took, 

Found  out  the  remedy.” 

He  has  put  home  to  the  holiest  here  their  need  of  an  infinite  forgiveness  from  Him 
who  requires  truth  in  the  inward  parts: — 

“  How  would  you  be, 

If  He,  which  is  the  top  of  judgment,  should 
But  judge  you  as  you  are !  ” 

‘  He  was  one  who  was  well  aware  what  a  stewardship  was  his  own  in  those 
marvelous  gifts  which  had  been  entrusted  to  him,  for  he  has  himself  told  us  : — 


“  Heaven  does  with  us  as  we  with  torches  do, 

Not  light  them  for  themselves  :  for  if  our  virtues 
Did  not  go  forth  of  us,  ’twere  all  alike 
As  if  we  had  them  not.” 

And  again  he  has  told  us  that 

“  Spirits  are  not  finely  touched 
But  for  fine  issues  :  ” 


assuredly  not  ignorant  how  finely  his  own  had  been  touched,  and  what  would  be 
demanded  from  him  in  return.  He  was  one  who  certainly  knew  that  there  is  none 
so  wise  that  he  can  “  circumvent  God  and  that  for  a  man,  whether  he  be  called 
early  or  late, 


shakspere’s  birthplace  before  restoration. 


83 


“  Ripeness  is  all.” 


SHAKSPERE'S  COUNTRY. 


Who  shall  persuade  us  that  he  abode  outside  of  that  holy  temple  of  our  faith, 
whereof  he  has  uttered  such  glorious  things — admiring  its  beauty,  but  not  himself 
entering  to  worship  there?’ 

To  the  same  effect,  we  may  quote  the  preliminary  sentence  of  Shakspere’s  will : 
‘I  commend  my  soul  into  the  hands  of  God,  my  Creator,  hoping,  and  assuredly 
believing,  through  the  only  merits  of  Jesus  Christ,  my  Saviour,  to  be  made  partaker 
of  life  everlasting.’  With  such  a  master  of  words,  this  avowal  would  be  no  mere 
formality.  During  Shakspere’s  last  residence  at  Stratford,  moreover,  the  town  was 
under  strong  religious  influences.  Many  a  ‘  great  man  in  Israel,’  in  fraternal  visits 
to  the  Rev.  Richard  Byfield,  the  vicar,  is  said  to  have  been  hospitably  entertained  at 
New  Place  ;  and  memorable  evenings  must  have  been  spent  in  converse  on  the 
highest  themes.  In  addition  to  all  this,  the  following  sonnet  furnishes  an  interest¬ 
ing  proof  that  the  heart  of  Shakspere,  at  an  earlier  period,  had  not  been  unsuscep¬ 
tible  to  religious  sentiments  and  aspirations  : 

‘  Poor  soul,  the  center  of  my  sinful  earth, 

Fooled  by  those  rebel  powers  that  thee  array, 

Why  dost  thou  pine  within,  and  suffer  dearth, 

Painting  thy  outward  walls  so  costly  gay  ? 

Why  so  large  cost,  having  so  short  a  lease, 

Dost  thou  upon  thy  fading  mansion  spend  ? 

Shall  worms,  inheritors  of  thine  excess, 

Eat  up  thy  charge  ?  Is  this  thy  body’s  end  ? 

Then,  soul,  live  thou  upon  thy  body’s  loss, 

And  let  that  pine  to  aggravate  thy  store  ; 

Buy  terms  divine  in  selling  hours  of  dross  ; 

Within  be  fed,  without  be  rich  no  more  : 

So  shalt  thou  feed  on  death,  that  feeds  on  men, 

And,  death  once  dead,  there’s  no  more  dying  then.’ — Sonnet  cxlvi. 

All  that  such  words  suggest  we  gladly  admit  among  the  probabilities  of  Shak¬ 
spere’s  unknown  life.  But  in  his  dramas  themselves  we  find  no  assured  grasp  of  the 
highest  spiritual  truth,  nothing  to  show  that  such  truth  controlled  his  views  of  life 
with  imperial  sway  ;  little  or  nothing  to  uplift  the  reader  from  the  play  of  human 
passions  and  the  entanglement  of  human  interests  to  the  higher  realms  of  Faith.  It 
is  the  same  Shakspere  who  reveals  the  depths  of  human  corruption,  and  the  noble¬ 
ness  of  human  excellence.  But  in  portraying  the  latter,  he  stops  short,  and  fails 
'exactly  where  the  higher  light  of  faith  would  have  enabled  him  to  complete  the 
delineation.  His  best  and  greatest  characters  are  a  law  unto  themselves:  his  men 
are  passionate  and  strong  ;  his  women  are  beautiful,  with  a  loveliness  that  scarcely 
ever  reminds  us  of  heaven  :  he  has  neither  ‘  raised  the  mortal  to  the  skies,’  nor 
‘brought  the  an^el  down.’ 

We  turn,  then,  from  Stratford-on-Avon,  feeling,  as  we  have  said,  more  deeply 
than  ever  the  mystery  that  overhangs  the  career  of  the  man,  admiring,  if  possible, 
more  heartily  than  ever  the  genius  of  the  poet,  and  acknowledging,  not  without 
mournfulness,  how  much  greater  Shakspere  might  have  been.  For  there  was  an 
inspiration  within  his  reach  that  would  have  made  him  chief  among  the  witnesses  of 
God  to  men  ;  and  his  magnificent  endowments  would  then  have  been  the  richest 
offering  ever  placed  by  human  hand  upon  that  altar  which  ‘  sanctifieth  both  the  giver 
and  the  ofift.’ 


8o 


1  God  gives  to  every  man 
The  virtue,  temper,  understanding,  taste, 
That  lifts  him  into  life,  and  lets  him  fall 
Just  in  the  niche  he  was  ordained  to  fill. 
***** 

To  me  an  unambitious  mind,  content 
In  the  low  vale  of  life.’ 

Cowper  :  The  Task ,  Book  bjr 


yc 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  BUNYAN  AND  COWPER. 

The  River  Ouse. 


OME  of  the  most  characteristic  excursions 
through  the  gently  undulating  rural  scen¬ 
ery  which  distinguishes  so  large  a  por¬ 
tion  of  the  south  midland  district  of  Enof- 
land  may  be  made  along  the  towing-paths 
of  the  canals.  The  notion  may  appear  un¬ 
romantic  ;  the  pathway  is  artificial,  yet  it 
has  now  become  rusticated  and  fringed 
with  various  verdure  ;  some  of  the  asso¬ 
ciations  of  the  canal  are  anything  but  at¬ 
tractive,  but  upon  the  whole  the  charm  is 
great.  A  wide  level  path,  driven  straight 
across  smiling  valleys  and  by  the  side  of 
hills,  here  and  there  skirting  a  fair  park, 
and  occasionally  bringing  some  broad 
open  landscape  into  sudden  view,  with 
the  gleam  and  coolness  of  still  waters 
ever  at  the  traveler’s  side,  affords  him  a 
‘strong  climber  of  the  mountain’s  side  may 
the  more  delightful,  because  they  can  be 
enjoyed  with  no  more  fatigue  than  that  of  a  leisurely,  health-giving  stroll. 

It  was  by  such  a  walk  as  this  through  some  of  the  pleasantest  parts  of  Hert¬ 
fordshire  that  we  first  made  our  way  to  Berkhampstead,  the  birthplace  of  William 
Cowper,  turning  from  the  canal  bank  to  the  embowered  fragments  of  the  castle,  and 
through  the  quiet  little  town  to  the  *  public  way,’ — the  pretty  rural  by-road  where 
the  ‘  gardener  Robin  ’  drew  his  little  master  to  school : 


YARDLEY  OAK. 


succession  of  pictures  which  perhaps  the 
disdain,  but  which  to  many  will  be  all 


‘  Delighted  with  the  bauble  coach,  and  wrapped 
In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet  capped,’ 


while  the  fond  mother  watched  her  darling  from  the  ‘  nursery  window,’  the  memory 
of  which  one  pathetic  poem  has  made  immortal. 

In  a  well-known  sentence,  Lord  Macaulay  affirms  in  reference  to  the  seven¬ 
teenth  century  :  ‘  We  are  not  afraid  to  say  that,  though  there  were  many  clever  men 
in  England  during  the  lattef  half  of  that  century,  there  were  only  two  minds  which 
possessed  the  imaginative  faculty  in  a  very  eminent  degree.  One  of  these  minds 
produced  the  Paradise  Lost ;  the  other,  the  Pilgrims  Progress.'  Similarly,  with 
regard  to  the  brilliant  literary  period  which  began  toward  the  close  of  the  eigh¬ 
teenth  century,  ‘  we  are  not  afraid  to  say  ’  that,  although  there  were  many  poets  in 

93 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  RUNYAN  AND  COWPER. 


England  of  no  mean  order,  there  were  but  two  to  whom  it  was  griven  to  view  nature 
simply  and  sincerely,  so  as  adequately  to  express  ‘  the  delight  of  man  in  the  works 
of  God.’  One  of  these  poets  produced  The  Task ,  the  other  The  Excursion. 

When  Macaulay  wrote,  the  place  of  Bunyan  in  literature  was  still  held  a  little 
doubtful  ;  the  place  of  Cowper  among  poets  is  not  wholly  unquestioned  now. 
Some  are  impatient  of  his  simplicity,  others  scorn  his  piety,  many  cannot  escape,  as 
they  read,  from  the  shadow  of  the  darkness  in  which  he  wrote.  But  we  cannot 
doubt  that,  when  the  coming  reaction  from  feverishness  and  heathenism  in  poetry 
shall  have  set  in,  the  name  of  Cowper  will  win  increasing  honor  ;  men  will  search 
for  themselves  into  the  source  of  those  bright  phrases,  happy  allusions,  ‘  jewels  five 
words  long,  that  on  the  stretched  forefinger  of  all  time  sparkle  for  ever,’  for  which 
the  world  is  often  unconsciously  indebted  to  his  poems;  while  his  incomparable 
letters  will  remain  as  the  finest  and  most  brilliant  specimens  of  an  art  which  penny 
postage,  telegrams,  and  post-cards  have  rendered  almost  extinct. 


BIRTHPLACE  OF  COWPER,  BERKHAMPSTE AD  RECTORY. 


No  one,  at  any  rate,  will  wonder  now  that  we  should  turn  awhile  from  more 
outwardly  striking  or  enchanting  scenes  to  the  ground  made  classic  and  sacred  to 
the  Christian  by  the  memories  of  Bunyan  and  Cowper.  We  may  associate  their 
names,  not  only  from  their  brotherhood  in  faith  and  teaching,  but  from  the  coinci¬ 
dence  which  identifies  their  respective  homes  with  one  and  the  same  river,  and  blends 
their  memories  with  the  fair,  still  landscapes  through  which  it  steals. 

The  Ouse,  most  meandering  of  English  streams,  waters  a  country  almost 
perfectly  level  throughout,  though  here  and  there  fringed  by  the  undulations  of  the 
receding  Chilterns ;  with  a  picturesqueness  derived  from  rich  meadows,  broad 
pastures  with  flowery  hedgerows,  and  tall,  stately  trees  ;  while  in  many  places  the 
still  river  expands  into  a  miniature  lake,  with  water-lilies  floating  upon  its  bosom. 
Among  scenes  likes  these  the  great  dreamer  passed  his  youth,  in  his  village  home 


94 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  RUNYAN  AND  COW  PER. 


at  Elstow  ;  often  visiting  the  neighboring  town  of  Bedford,  where  we  may  picture 
him  as  leaning  in  many  a  musing  fit  over  the  old  Ouse  Bridge,  on  which  the  town 
prison  then  stood.  The  bridge  is  gone,  the  town  has  become  a  thriving  modern 
bustling  place  ;  only  the  river  remains,  and  the  country  walk  to  Elstow  is  little 
changed.  There  is  the  cottage  which  tradition  identifies  with  Bunyan  :  with  the 
church  and  the  belfry,  so  memorable  in  the  record  of  his  experiences  :  the  village 
green,  on  which,  in  his  thoughtless  youth,  he  used  to  play  at  ‘tip-cat’:  there  is 
nothing  more  to  see  ;  but  it  is  impossible  to  pace  through  those  homely  ways  with¬ 
out  remembering  how  once  the  place  was  luminous  to  his  awe-stricken  spirit  with 
‘the  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  shore,’  and  the  landscape  on  which  his  inward 
eye  was  fixed  was  closed  in  by  the  great  white  throne. 

It  is  remarkable  that  there  is  in  Bunyan’s  writings  so  little  of  local  coloring. 


OLNEY  VICARAGE. 


His  fields,  hills,  and  valleys  are  not  of  earth.  The  ‘wilderness  of  this  world’ 
through  which  he  wandered  was  something  quite  apart  from  the  Bedfordshire  fiats, 
although  indeed  ‘the  den’  on  which  he  lighted  is  but  too  truthful  a  representation 
of  the  county  prison,  which  was  so  long  Bunyan’s  ‘home.’1  Even  where  familiar 
scenes  may  have  supplied  the  groundwork  of  the  picture,  incidental  touches  show 
that  his  soul  was  beyond  them.  His  hillsides  are  covered  with  ‘vineyards’;  the 
meadows  by  the  river-side  are  fair  with  ‘  lilies  ’;  the  fruits  in  the  orchard  have 

1  Dr.  Brown,  in  his  Life  of  Bunyan.  has  shown  that  the  prison  in  which  Bunyan  spent  twelve  memorable  years  (1660-1672) 
was  not  the  old  town  jail  on  Ouse  Bridge,  but  the  county  prison,  of  which  only  the  fragment  of  a  wall  remains.  But  the 
‘  Dream  ’  may  have  come  to  him  during  a  subsequent  six  months’  confinement  in  the  town  jail,  1675-6.  The  Pilgrim's 
Progress  was  first  published  1678. 


95 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  RUNYAN  AND  COW  PER. 


mystic  healing  virtue.  The  scenery  of  Palestine  rather  than  of  Bedfordshire  is, 
present  to  his  view,  and  his  well-loved  Bible  has  contributed  as  much  to  his  descrip¬ 
tions  as  any  reminiscences  of  his  excursion  around  his  native  place.  But  it  was  after 
all  in  no  earthly  walks  or  haunts  of  men  that  he  found  the  prototypes  of  his  immortal 
pictures.  They  are  idealized  experiences,  and  from  the  Wicket-gate  to  the  Land  of 
Beulah  they  all  represent  what  he  had  seen  and  felt  only  in  his  soul.  No  doubt  the 
people  are  in  many  cases  less  abstract.  A  very  remarkable  edition  of  the  Pilgrim  s 
Progress,  published  some  years  ago  by  an  artist  of  rare  promise,  since  deceased, 
portrayed  the  personages  of  the  allegory  in  the  very  guise  in  which  Bunyan  must 
often  have  met  the  originals  up  and  down  in  Bedfordshire.  Such  faces  may  be  seen 
to-day.  We  ourselves  thought  we  saw  Mr.  Honesty,  in  a  brown  coat,  looking  at 
some  bullocks  in  the  Bedford  market-place.  Ignorance  tried  to  entice  us  into  a 
theological  discussion  at  the  little  country-side  inn  where  we  rested  for  the  night :  the 


ELSTOW. 


next  morning,  as  we  passed  along,  Mercy  was  knitting  at  a  farm-house  door,  while- 
young  Mr.  Brisk,  driving  by  in  his  gig,  made  her  an  elaborate  bow,  of  which  we 
were  glad  to  see  she  took  the  slightest  possible  notice. 

Bedford  is  now,  at  least,  rich  in  memorials  of  its  illustrious  citizen  and  prisoner 
for  conscience,  sake.  The  Bunyan  Statue,  presented  by  the  Duke  of  Bedford,  was 
erected  in  1874,  and  is  one  of  the  noblest  and  most  characteristic  out-of-door  monu¬ 
ments  in  England.  It  has  indeed  been  suggested  that  Bunyan  might  more  appropri¬ 
ately  have  been  represented  in  the  attitude  of  writing  than  in  that  of  preaching  ;  but 
it  should  be  remembered  that  the  latter  was  the  work  he  chose  and  loved,  and  that 
his  greatest  works  were  penned  during  the  period  of  enforced  silence.  It  is  there¬ 
fore  with  a  fine  appropriateness  that  he  is  represented  as  standing,  as  if  in  the 
presence  of  some  vast  congregation,  the  Bible  in  his  hand,  his  eyes  uplifted  to. 

96 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  RUNYAN  AND  COW  PER. 


heaven,  while  upon  the  pedestal  are  carved  his  own  words  :  ‘  It  had  eyes  lifted  up  to 
heaven,  the  best  of  books  in  his  hand.  The  law  of  truth  was  written  upon  his 
lips . It  stood  as  if  it  pleaded  with  men.’ 1 

No  visitor  to  Bedford  should  neglect  the  rapidly  accumulating  Bunyan  Museum,, 
comprising  not  only  some  simple  relics  of  his  lifetime,  as  his  staff,  jug,  and  the  like, 
with  books  bearing  his  autograph — his  priceless  Bible  and  Fox’s  Martyrs — but  the 
various  editions  of  his  works,  and  in  particular  a  collection  of  the  illustrations  of  the 
Pilgrinis  Progress,  from  the  first  rude  designs  to  the  latest  products  of  artistic  skill. 
These  are  stored  with  reverent  care,  in  connection  with  the  place  of  worship  occu¬ 


pied  by  the  Christian  Church  to  which  he  ministered,  and  now  known  as  Bunyan 
Meeting.  To  this  edifice,  likewise,  a  pair  of  massive  bronze  gates  have  been  contrib¬ 
uted  by  the  Duke  of  Bedford,  with  panels  illustrative  of  scenes  from  the  allegory. 

From  Bedford  to  Olney,  the  distance  by  rail  is  between  ten  and  eleven  miles  : 
by  ‘  the  sinuous  Ouse,’  probably  between  thirty  and  forty.  Few  travelers,  therefore, 
will  care  to  ascend  by  the  river  banks,  and  the  frequent  shallows  preclude  the 
thought  of  a  boating  excursion,  which  otherwise  would,  by  its  leisurely  length,  be 
some  preparation  for  our  exchange  of  the  associations  of  the  seventeenth  century 
for  those  of  the  eighteenth.  One  hundred  and  three  years  separated  the  birthday 

1  Pilgrim's  Progress.  Picture  of  a  ‘  Grave  Person  ’  in  the  Interpreter’s  House. 


BEDFORD. 


97 


BUNYAN  MONUMENT,  BEDFORD. 

pare  in  their  passionate  anxiety  with  the  annals  of  Cowper’s  despair.  The  great 
dreamer  soon  escaped  from  Doubting  Castle  to  the  Delectable  Mountains  ;  but,  for 
the  poet,  the  dungeon  bars  remained  unloosed  until  the  final  summons  came  to  the 
everlasti  no*  hills.1 

o 

1  ‘  From  the  moment  of  Cowper’s  death,  till  the  coffin  was  closed,’  writes  his  friend  and  relative  Mr.  Johnson,  ‘  the  ex¬ 
pression  into  which  his  countenance  had  settled  was  that  of  calmness  and  composure,  mingled,  as  it  were,  with  holy  surprise.' — 

Southey's  Life. 

9$ 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  BUNYAN  AND  COWPER. 

of  Bunyan  from  that  of  Cowper.  1  he  interval  marks  the  greatest  advance  that  had 
ever  been  made  in  the  history  of  English  thought  and  freedom.  But  in  the 
essentials  of  faith  and  teaching  the  two  men  were  one  :  nor  in  some  of  their  experi¬ 
ences  were  they  very  dissimilar.  Both  were  sensitive,  conscientious,  and  often,  in 
the  midst  of  their  holiest  longings  after  God,  were  most  terror-stricken  by  the 
thoughts  of  the  wrath  to  come.  Some  pages  of  Bunyan’s  autobiography  may  com- 


BUKYAX  GATES,  BEDFORD. 


99 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  BUNYAN  AND  CO  IV PER. 


The  sensitiveness  of  Cowper  to  external  influences  was  so  great  as  to  raise  the 
■doubt  whether  other  scenes  and  a  different  atmosphere  might  not  have  prevented 
many  of  his  sorrows.  On  the  death  of  his  father,  when  the  poet  had  reached  the 
age  of  twenty-five,  he  touchingly  and  expressively  tells  us  that  it  had  never  till  then 
occurred  to  him  ‘that  a  parson  has  no  fee-simple  in  the  house  and  glebe  he  occupies. 
There  was,’  he  says,  ‘  neither  tree,  nor  gate,  nor  stile  in  all  that  country  to  which  I 
did  not  feel  a  relation,  and  the  house  itself  I  preferred  to  a  palace.’  To  Hunting¬ 
don,  where  he  first  made  acquaintance  with  the  Ouse,  and  became  an  inmate  with 
the  Unwins,  he  clung  very  lovingly,  although  he  does  not  rate  the  charms  of  the 
neighborhood  very  highly.  ‘  My  lot  is  cast  in  a  country  where  we  have  neither 
woods  nor  commons,  nor  pleasant  prospects  :  all  flat  and  insipid  ;  in  the  summer 
adorned  only  with  blue  willows,  and  in  the  winter  covered  with  a  flood.’  But  it  was 
at  Olney  that  Cowper  found  such 
scenery  as  he  could  appreciate 
and  love.  ‘  He  does  not,’  in  the 
words  of  Sir  James  Mackintosh, 

‘  describe  the  most  beautiful  scenes 
in  nature ;  he  discovers  what  is 
most  beautiful  in  ordinary  scenes. 

•eye  and  his  moral  heart  detected 
beauty  in  the  sandy  flats  of  Buck¬ 
inghamshire.’  The  walk,  espec¬ 
ially,  from  the  quiet  little  town  to 
the  village  of  Weston  Underwood, 
he  has  made  classic  amonor  English 
scenes  by  the  description  in  the 
first  book  of  The  Task.  We 
know  not  where,  in  the  whole  com¬ 
pass  of  English  poetry,  to  find  a 
delineation  so  literally  truthful  as 
well  as  so  delicately  touched. 

Leaving  Olney,  where,  in  truth,  there  is  not  much  to  detain  us  save  the  poet’s 
home — the  same  in  outward  aspect,  at  least,  as  during  the  twenty  years  spent  by 
him  within  its  walls,  and  the  summer-house  in  the  garden,  where  he  sat  and  wrote, 
while  Mrs.  Unwin  knitted,  and  Puss,  Tiny,  and  Bess  sported  upon  the  grass — we 
may  climb  the  little  eminence  above  the  river,  and,  with  an  admiration  like  that 
of  the  poet  a  century  ago,  ‘dwell  upon  the  scene.’  There  is  the  ‘  distant  plow,  slow 
moving,’  and 

‘  Here  Ouse,  slow  winding  through  a  level  plain 
Of  spacious  meads,  with  cattle  sprinkled  o’er, 

Conducts  the  eye  along  his  sinuous  course 
Delighted.  There,  fast  rooted  in  their  bank, 

Stand,  never  overlooked,  our  favorite  elms, 

That  screen  the  herdsman’s  solitary  hut  ; 

While  far  beyond,  and  overthwart  the  stream, 

That,  as  with  molten  glass,  inlays  the  vale, 

The  sloping  land  recedes  into  the  clouds  ; 

IOI 


In  fact,  Cowper  saw  very  few 
beautiful  scenes,  but  his  poetical 


BELFRY  DOOR,  ELSTOW  CHURCH. 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  BUN  VAN  AND  COIV PER. 


Displaying  on  its  varied  side  the  grace 
Of  hedgerow  beauties  numberless,  square  tower, 

Tall  spire,  from  which  the  sound  of  cheerful  bells 
Just  undulates  upon  the  listening  ear  ; 

Groves,  heaths,  and  smoking  villages  remote.’ 

We  are  now  at  the  upper  corner  of  the  Throckmorton  Park.  Pursuing  our  way* 
we  listen  to  the  music  of  ‘  nature  inanimate,’  of  rippling  brook  or  sighing  wind,  and 
of  ‘nature  animate,’  of  ‘ten  thousand  warblers’  that  so  soothed  the  poet’s  soul.  A 
dip  in  the  walk  from  where  the  elms  inclose  the  upper  park,  and  the  chestnuts 
spread  their  shade,  brings  us  into  a  grassy  dell  where,  by  a  ‘  rustic  bridge,’  we  cross 
to  the  opposite  slope,  reascend  to  the  ‘  alcove,’  survey  from  the  ‘  speculative  height  ’ 
the  pasture  with  its  ‘  fleecy  tenants,’  the  ‘  sunburnt  hayfield  ’  the  ‘  woodland  scene*' 


OLD  HOSTELRY,  ELSTOW. 


the  trees,  each  with  its  own  hue,  as  so  exquisitely  depicted  by  the  poet,  while  Ouse 
in  the  distance  ‘  glitters  in  the  sun.’  At  length  the  great  avenue  is  reached. 

‘  How  airy  and  how  light  the  graceful  arch, 

Yet  awful  as  the  consecrated  roof 
Re-echoing  pious  anthems  !  while  beneath, 

The  chequered  earth  seems  restless  as  a  flood 
Brushed  by  the  wind.  So  sportive  is  the  light 
Shot  through  the  boughs,  it  dances  as  they  dance, 

Shadow  and  sunshine  intermingling  quick, 

And  darkening  and  enlightening,  as  the  leaves 
Play  wanton,  every  moment,  every  spot.’ 

Such  were  the  scenes  dearest  to  Cowper,  and  dear  to  many  still  for  his  sake. 
True,  they  are  not  unlike  others.  A  thousand  scenes  are  as  beautiful,  and  manv  art 


102 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  RUNYAN  AND  CO  IV PER. 


RESIDENCE  OF  WILLIAM  COWPER,  OLNEY. 


avenue,  up  and  down  in  English  parks,  is  of  a  nobler  stateliness.  Yet  may  this  be 
visited  with  a  special  delight  for  its  own  sake  and  for  Cowper’s.  It  is  something  to 
be  able  to  look  with  a  poet’s  eye,  to  have  his  thoughts  and  words  so  familiar  to 

memory  as  to  blend  with  the  current  of 
our  own,  as  if  spontaneously.  We  learn 
anew  how  to  observe,  and  our  emotions 
become  almost  unconsciously  ennobled 
and  refined. 

It  is  characteristic  of  Cowper’s  mind 
that  scenery  of  a  loftier  and  more  excit¬ 
ing  order  had  a  disquieting  effect  upon 
him.  Of  his  journey  to  Eastham,  in 
Sussex,  to  visit  his  friend  Hayley,  he 
writes:  ‘I  indeed  myself  was  a  little 
daunted  by  the  tremendous  height  of  the 
Sussex  Hills,  in  comparison  with  which 
all  that  I  had  seen  elsewhere  are  dwarfs. 
But  I  only  was  alarmed;  Mrs.  Unwin 
had  no  such  sensations,  but  was  always 
cheerful  from  the  beginning  of  our  ex- 
pedition  to  the  end  of  it.’  And  again  : 
‘The  charms  of  the  place,  uncommon 
as  they  are,  have  not  in  the  least  alien, 
ated  my  affections  from  Weston.  The  genius  of  that  place  suits  me  better  ; 
it  has  an  air  of  snug  concealment,  in  which  a  disposition  like  mine  feels  pecu¬ 
liarly  gratified,  whereas  here  I  see  from  every  window  woods  like  forests,  and 
hills  like  mountains — a  wildness,  in  short, 
that  rather  increases  my  natural  melan¬ 
choly.’  A  little  while  before,  on  Mr. 

Newton’s  return  from  the  glories  of 
Cheddar,  Cowper  writes  :  ‘  I  would  that  I 
could  see  some  of  the  mountains  which 
you  have  seen,  especially  because  Dr. 

Johnson  has  pronounced  that  no  man  is 
qualified  to  be  a  poet  who  has  never 
seen  a  mountain.  But  mountains  I  shall 
never  see,  unless  perhaps  in  a  dream,  or 
unless  there  are  such  in  heaven.  Nor 
those,’  the  poor  heart-stricken  poet  makes 
haste  to  add,  ‘  unless  I  receive  twice  as 
much  mercy  as  ever  yet  was  shown  to 
any  man.’ 

The  last  sentence  prepares  us  for  East 
Dereham,  with  its  sad  associations.  But 
even  from  these  we  need  not  shrink.  The  homely  Norfolk  town  brought  to 
the  troubled  soul  deliverance.  Few,  it  may  be,  would  turn  aside  to  visit  the  place 
for  its  own  sake  ;  but  the  remembrance  of  the  poet  may  well  attract.  T  he  house  in 


WESTON  LODGE,  OLNEY. 


•~3 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  RUNYAN  AND  COW  PER. 


which  he  died  has  been  replaced  by  a  Congregational  Church  bearing  his  name — 
twin  brother,  so  to  speak,  though  with  scarcely  the  same  appropriateness,  to  Bunyan 
Chapel  in  Bedford.  But  it  is  in  the  church  where  he  lies  buried,  and  in  the  tomb 
raised  to  his  memory,  that  the  true  interest  lies.  Never  was  death  more  an  angel 
of  mercy  than  to  this  darkly  shadowed  spirit.  We  all  know  the  words  in  which  the 
most  gifted  of  English  poetesses,  at  ‘  Cowper’s  Grave,’  has  set  the  thoughts  of 
many  Christian  hearts  to  words  that  deserve  to  be  immortal : 


EAST  DEREHAM  CHURCH. 

‘  Like  a  sick  child  that  knoweth  not  his  mother  while  she  blesses, 

And  drops  upon  his  burning  brow  the  coolness  of  her  kisses  ; 

That  turns  his  fevered  eyes  around — My  mother  !  where's  my  mother  ? 
As  if  such  tender  words  and  looks  could  come  from  any  other! 

The  fever  gone,  with  leaps  of  heart  he  sees  her  bending  o’er  him, 

Her  face  all  pale  from  watchful  love,  the  unweary  love  she  bore  him  ! 
Thus  woke  the  Poet  from  the  dream  his  life’s  long  fever  gave  him, 
Beneath  those  deep  pathetic  eyes,  which  closed  in  death  to  save  him  ! 

Thus  ?  oh,  not  thus  !  no  type  of  earth  could  image  that  awaking, 
Wherein  he  scarcely  heard  the  chant  of  seraphs  round  him  breaking, 
Or  felt  the  new  immortal  throb  of  soul  from  body  parted, 

But  felt  those  eyes  alone,  and  knew — My  Saviour  !  not  deserted!  ’ 


PIKE  POOL,  BERESFORD  DALE. 


‘  Viator. — But  what  have  we  got  here  ?  A  rock  springing  up  in  the  middle  of  the  river  ! 
This  is  one  of  the  oddest  sights  that  ever  I  saw. 

‘  Piscator. — Why,  sir,  from  that  pike  that  you  see  standing  up  there  distant  from  the 
rock,  this  is  called  Pike  Pool  :  and  young  Mr.  Izaak  Walton  was  so  pleased  with  it,  as  to 
draw  it  in  landscape,  in  black  and  white,  in  a  blank  book  I  have  at  home.’ 

The  Complete  Angler. 


ro6 


WINTER-TIME. — FEEDING  THE  DEER  IN  CHATSWORTH  PARK. 


THE  PEAK  OF  DERBYSHIRE. 


THE  traveler  into  Derbyshire,  unaccustomed  to  the  district,  may  not  unnaturally 
inquire  for  ‘  the  Peak,’  which  he  has  been  taught  to  consider  one  of  the  chief 
English  mountains,  and  the  name  of  which  has  always  suggested  to  him  something 
like  a  pyramid  of  rock, — an  English  Matterhorn.  He  will  be  soon  undeceived,  and 
then  may  paradoxically  declare  the  peculiarity  of  ‘  the  Peak  District  ’  to  be  that 
there  is  no  Peak  !  The  range  so  called  is  a  bulky  mass  of  millstone  grit,  rising 
irregularly  from  the  limestone  formation  which  occupies  the  southern  part  of  Derby¬ 
shire,  and  extending  in  long  spurs,  or  arms,  north  and  northeast  into  Yorkshire  as 
far  as  Sheffield,  and  west  and  south  into  Cheshire  and  Staffordshire.  The  plateau 
is  covered  by  wild  moorland,  clothed  with  fern,  moss,  and  heather,  and  broken  up  by 
deep  hollows  and  glens,  through  which  streamlets  descend,  each  through  its  own 
belt  of  verdure,  from  the  spongy  morasses  above,  forming  in  their  course  many  a 
minute  but  picturesque  waterfall.  The  pedestrian  who  establishes  himself  in  the 
little  inn  at  Ashopton  will  have  the  opportunity  of  exploring  many  a  breezy  height 
and  romantic  glen  ;  while,  if  he  has  strength  of  limb  and  of  lungs  to  make  his  way 
to  Kinderscout,  the  highest  point  of  all,  he  will  breathe,  at  the  elevation  of  not 
quite  two  thousand  feet,  as  fresh  and  exhilarating  an  atmosphere  as  can  be  found 
anywhere  in  these  islands  ;  the  busy  smoky  city  of  Manchester  being  at  a  distance, 
‘as  the  crow  dies,’  of  little  more  than  fifteen  miles!  It  is  no  wonder  that  a  select 
company  of  hard-worked  men,  who  have  lighted  on  this  nook  among  the  hills,  hav¬ 
ing  a  taste  for  natural  history,  resort  hither  year  after  year,  finding  a  refreshment  in 
the  repeated  visit  equal  at  least  to  that  which  their  fellow-citizens  enjoy,  at  greater 
cost,  in  the  terraces  of  Buxton,  or  on  the  gigantic  slope  of  Matlock  Bank. 


107 


THE  PEAK  OF  DERBYSHIRE. 


Where  the  limestone  emerges  from  under  the  mass  of  grit,  the  scenery  alto 
gether  changes.  For  roughly  rounded,  dark-colored  rocks,  covered  with  ling  and 
bracken,  now  appear  narrow  glens,  bold  escarped  edges,  cliffs  splintered  into  pin¬ 
nacles  and  pierced  by  wonderful  caves,  traversed  by  hidden  streams.  Of  these  caves 
the  ‘  Peak  Cavern’  at  Castleton  is  the  largest,  that  of  the  ‘Blue  John  Mine’  the 
most  beautiful,  from  its  veins  of  Derbyshire  spar. 

The  tourist,  however,  who  confines  himself  to  the  Peak  District  proper,  with  its 
immediately  outlying  scenery,  will  have  a  very  inadequate  view  of  the  charms  of 
Derbyshire.  He  can  scarcely  do  better  than  begin  at  the  other  extremity,  ascend¬ 
ing  the  Dove,  through  its  limestone  valley,  as  far  as  Buxton,  thence  taking  rail  to 
Chapel-en-le-Frith,  expatiating  over  the  Peak  moorlands  according  to  time  and 
inclination,  descending  to  the  limestone  region  again  at  Castleton,  and  following  the 
Derwent  in  its  downward  course  to  Ambergate,  pausing  in  his  way  to  visit  Chats- 
worth  and  Haddon  Hall,  and  to  stay  awhile  at  Matlock. 

Having  thus  planned  our  own  journey,  our  starting-point  was  Ashbourne, 'a 
quiet,  pretty  little  town  at  the  extremity  of  a  branch  railway.  There  was  not  much 
in  the  town  itself  to  detain  us  :  we  could  only  pay  a  hurried  visit  to  the  church, 
whose  beautiful  spire,  212  feet  high,  is  sometimes  called  the  Pride  of  the  Peak. 
There  are  some  striking  monuments  ;  and  among  them  one  with  an  inscription  of 
almost  unequaled  mournfulness.  It  is  to  an  only  child,  a  daughter  :  ‘She  was  in 
form  and  intellect  most  exquisite.  The  unfortunate  parents  ventured  their  all  on 
this  frail  bark,  and  the  wreck  was  total.’  Never  was  plaint  of  sorrowing  despair 
more  touching.  Let  us  hope,  both  that  the  parents’  darling  was  a  lamb  in  the  Good 
Shepherd’s  fold,  and  that  the  sorrowing  father  and  mother  found  at  length  that 
there  can  be  no  total  wreck  to  those  whose  treasure  is  in  heaven  ! 

A  night’s  refreshing  rest  at  the  inn,  where  several  nationalities  oddly  combine 
to  make  up  one  complex  sign — the  fierce  Saracen,  the  thick-lipped  negro,  the  Eng¬ 
lish  huntsman  in  his  coat  of  Lincoln  green  ! — and  we  sallied  forth  on  a  glorious  day 
of  early  autumn  to  make  our  first  acquaintance  with  Dovedale.  Leaving  the  town 
at  the  extremity  farthest  from  the  railway  station,  we  found  ourselves  on  a  well-kept, 
undulating  road,  skirted  by  fair  pastures  on  either  hand  ;  the  absence  of  corn-fields 
being  a  very  marked  feature  in  the  landscape.  Turning  into  pleasant  country  lanes 
to  the  left,  we  soon  reached  the  garden  gate  of  a  finely  situated  rural  inn,  the 
*  Peveril  of  the  Peak,’  whence  a  short  cut  would  have  led  us  over  the  brow  of  the 
hill  into  Dovedale  ;  but  we  were  anxious  to  visit  Ilam,  and  therefore  made  a  detour 
as  far  as  the  ‘  Izaak  Walton,’  so  well  known  to  brothers  of  the  ‘  gentle  craft.’  A  little 
farther,  and  we  were  in  the  identical  Happy  Valley  of  Rasselas,  where  we  found  a 
charming  little  village,  with  school-house  and  drinking-fountain,  park  and  hall  and 
church,  and  every  cottage  a  picture.  Two  little  rivers  meet  here,  one  of  them  the 
Manifold,  the  other  and  larger  the  Dove  ;  and,  after  a  hurried  view  of  the  lovely 
valley,  we  lost  no  time  in  making  our  way  to  the  entrance  of  the  far-famed  Dale. 
As  most  of  our  readers  will  know,  the  Dove  divides  Staffordshire  from  Derbyshire  : 
we  took  the  Derbyshire  side,  entering  a  little  gate  on  the  river  bank,  and  leisurely, 
and  with  many  a  pause,  pursued  a  walk  with  which  surely  in  England  there  are  few 
to  compare.  The  river  is  a  shallow,  sparkling  stream,  with  many  a  pool  dear  to  the 
angler,  and  hurrying  down,  babbling  over  pebbles,  and  broken  in  its  course  by  many 
a  tiny  waterfall.  On  both  sides  rise  tall  limestone  cliffs,  splintered  into  countless 
108 


nOVF.DALE 


THE  PEAK  OE  DERBYSHIRE. 


fantastic  forms — rocky  walls,  towers,  and  pinnacles,  and  in  one  place  a  natural  arch¬ 
way  near  the  summit,  leading  to  the  uplands  beyond.  And  all  up  the  .sloping  sides, 
and  wherever  root-hold  could  be  obtained  on  pinnacle  and  crag,  were  clustered 
shrubs  and  trees  of  every  shade  of  foliage,  with  the  first  touch  of  autumn  to  heighten 
the  exquisite  variety  by  tints  which  as  yet  suggested  only  afar  off  the  thought  of 
decay.  The  solitude  of  the  scene  served  but  to  enhance  its  loveliness.  For  that 
road  by  the  river-side  is  no  broad,  well-beaten  track.  No  vehicle  can  pass,  and  even 
the  pedestrian  has  sometimes  to  pick  his  way  with  difficulty.  The  stillness,  on  the 
day  of  our  visit,  was  unbroken  save  for  the  murmur  of  the  water,  the  twitter  of  the 
birds,  and  the  rustling  of  the  branches  in  the  gentle  breeze.  The  blue  sky  over¬ 
head,  and  the  sunlight  casting  shadows  upon  the  cliffs  and  the  stream,  completed 
the  picture  ;  and  if  the  memory  of  Izaak  Walton  and  Charles  Cotton  haunted  their 
favorite  stream,  it  so  happened  that  we  encountered  none  of  their  disciples. 

Many  travelers  leave  the  glen  at  Mill  Dale,  where  a  pleasant  country  lane  to 
the  right  enables  them  to  gain  the  high  road  between  Ashbourne  and  Buxton. 
Time  and  strength  permitting,  however,  we  would  strongly  advise  the  tourist  to 
make  his  way  by  the  river  banks  to  Hartington,  passing  through  Beresford  Dale, 
where  at  Pike  Pool,  represented  in  the  frontispiece  to  this  chapter,  all  the  beauties 
of  the  Dove  Valley  are  concentrated  at  one  view.  A  limestone  obelisk  stands  in 
the  middle  of  the  river,  with  a  background  of  rich  foliage,  just  touched,  at  the  time 
of  our  visit,  with  autumnal  hues,  while  the  clear  water  eddied  and  sparkled  around 
its  base.  This  pool  was  the  favorite  resort  of  Walton  and  his  friend  Cotton. 
Many  allusions  to  the  spot  will  be  found  in  The  Complete  Angler;  and  the  com¬ 
fortable  inn  at  Hartington,  reached  from  Beresford  Dale  by  a  walk  for  about  a  mile 
through  pleasant  meadows,  bears  Charles  Cotton’s  name. 

At  Hartington,  the  high  road  to  Buxton  may  be  taken  ;  or,  far  better,  the 
traveler  may  make  his  way  to  the  famous  watering-place,  by  the  plateau  which 
divides  the  valley  of  the  Dove  from  that  of  its  tributary  Manifold  ;  he  will  then 
descend  to  the  former  valley  near  Longnor,  and  thence  may  climb  to  Axe  Edge, 
a  great  outlying  southerly  branch  or  spur  of  the  gritstone,  from  which  the  Dove  has 
its  rise.  Parting  with  this  lovely  river  at  its  very  fountain-head,  Ave  find  it  difficult 
to  believe  that  so  much  beauty  and  even  grandeur  can  have  been  included  in  the 
twenty  miles’  course  of  a  little  English  stream,  and  are  ready  to  indorse  the  enthu¬ 
siastic  tribute  of  Cotton  : 

‘  Such  streams  Rome’s  yellow  Tiber  cannot  show, 

The  Iberian  Tagus  or  Ligurian  Po  : 

The  Maese,  the  Danube  and  the  Rhine 
Are  puddle-water  all,  compared  with  thine, 

And  Loire’s  pure  streams  yet  too  polluted  are 
With  thine  much  purer  to  compare  : 

The  rapid  Garonne  and  the  winding  Seine 
Are  both  too  mean, 

Beloved  Dove,  with  thee 
To  claim  priority  : 

Nay,  Thame  and  Isis,  when  conjoined,  submit, 

And  lay  their  trophies  at  thy  silver  feet.’ 

At  Buxton,  easily  reached  from  Axe  Edge,  we  found  every  variety  of  excursion 
and  other  enjoyments  open  to  us,  ‘  for  a  consideration,’  while  the  place  itself,  from 


hi 


THE  PEAK  OF  DERBYSHIRE. 


the  unsurpassed  purity  of  its  air,  the  healing  qualities  of  its  hot  springs,  and  the  fas¬ 
cinating  contrivances  which  abound  on  all  hands  to  make  leisure  delightful,  induces 
the  most  eager  tourist  to  rest  awhile.  The  Derbyshire  dales,  moreover,  that  may 
be  easily  explored  from  this  point,  are  very  fine  ;  the  whole  of  the  Peak,  in  fact,  is 
open  to  his  exploration,  with  facilities  of  ready  return.  We  could  give,  however, 
but  a  hurried  glance  to  their  manifold  beauties,  being  bent  upon  descending  the 
Derwent  in  some  such  leisurely  fashion  as  that  in  which  we  had  ascended  the  Dove. 
We  had,  indeed,  the  railway  now  to  facilitate  the  latter  half  of  our  journey — no 
slight  matter  ;  and  yet  this  had  the  effect  of  bringing  multitudes  of  travelers,  like 
ourselves,  so  that  the  end  of  the  Derbyshire  tour  was  taken  in  company  with  a 
crowd.  For  a  time,  however,  we  were  comparatively  alone,  as  far  as  to  Castleton* 


THE  ‘  SHIVERING  MOUNTAIN.’ 


by  Mam  Tor,  the  wonderful  ‘Shivering  Mountain,’  where  the  sandstone  and  moun¬ 
tain  limestone  meet ;  so  called  from  the  loose  shale  which  is  constantly  descending 
its  side,  and  which,  in  popular  belief,  does  not  diminish  the  mountain’s  bulk  :  thence 
down  through  the  Winnyats  or  Windgates,  a  picturesque  pass  between  lofty  cliffs,, 
taking  its  name  from  the  winds  which  are  said  to  rage  almost  ceaselessly  through 
the  narrow  defile,  although  at  the  time  of  our  visit  the  air  was  calm,  while  the  lights 
and  shadows  of  a  perfect  autumn  day  beautified  the  gray  limestone  crags.  The 
ruins  of  Peveril’s  Castle,  and  the  gloomy  caves  of  Castleton,  of  course,  were  visited. 
Then  began  the  journey  down  the  Derwent,  embracing  pretty  Hathersage,  with  its 
ancient  camps,  tumuli,  and  other  remains  whose  origin  can  only  be  conjectured. 


1 12 


THE  PEAK  OF  DERBYSHIRE. 


Here  is  the  traditionary  grave  of  Robin  Hood’s  gigantic  comrade,  ‘  Little  John.’ 
A  4  Gospel  Stone,’  in  this  village,  once  used  as  a  pulpit,  perpetuates  the  memory  of 
the  open-air  harvest  and  thanksgiving  services  of  past  generations  ;  while  in  the 
village  of  Eyam,  three  or  four  miles  lower  down,  the  4  Pulpit  Rock,’  in  a  natural  dell 
still  called  a  ‘  church,’  brings  to  mind  the  heroism  of  a  devoted  pastor,  who, 
during  the  plague  of  1665,  when  it  would  have  been  dangerous  to  meet  in  any 
building,  daily  assembled  his  parishioners  in  this  place  to  pray  with  them,  to  teach, 
and  to  console.  The  traveler  will  not  regret  the  slight  detour  from  the  road  by 
the  river  to  visit  this  most  interesting  spot ;  and  he  may  return  to  the  Derwent  by 
Middleton  Dale,  another  magnificent  pass  through  limestone  cliffs.  Hence  he  will 
soon  reach  Edensor,  the  ‘model  village,’  and  Chatsworth,  ‘the  Palace  of  the  Peak.’ 
The  splendors  of  the  park  and  mansion  are  so  familiar  to  thousands, — to  whom 
in  fact  ‘  the  Peak  of  Derbyshire  ’ 
is  a  name  suggestive  only  of 
Chatsworth  and  Haddon  Hall, — 
that  we  need  attempt  no  descrip¬ 
tion  here.  The  visitor  may  follow 
his  own  bent,  whether  to  wander 
in  the  stately  park,  or  to  join  the 
hourly  procession  along  the  silken- 
roped  avenue,  through  the  corri¬ 
dors  and  apartments  of  the  Hall, 
with  due  admiration  of  the  pic¬ 
tures,  the  statuary,  and  the  won¬ 
derful  carving  ;  thence  passing  out 
into  the  conservatory  and  the  gar 
dens,  where  nature  has  done  so 
much,  and  art  so  much  more. 

Truly,  days  at  Chatsworth  are 
among  the  bright  days  of  life, 
especially  if  there  be  time  and 
opportunity  also  to  visit  Haddon 
Hall,  that  almost  unique  specimen 
of  an  old  baronial  English  home, 
empty  and  dismantled  now,  but 
carefully  preserved,  and  beautiful 
for  situation,  upon  the  Derbyshire  edensor. 

Wye,  which  here  descends  from 

its  limestone  glens  and  dales,  through  the  pretty  town  of  Bakewell,  to  unite  at 
Rowsley  with  the  Derwent. 

At  this  junction,  too,  the  traveler  comes  upon  the  railway,  and  will  be  tempted 
to  pass  only  too  rapidly  by  the  beauties  of  the  Derwent  Valley  between  Rowsley  and 
Ambergate.  We  can  but  assure  him  that  he  will  lose  much  by  so  doing;  that 
Darley  Dale  and  Moor  are  very  beautiful,  and  that  the  tourist  who  rushes  on  to 
Matlock  Bath  without  staying  to  climb  Matlock  Bank  does  an  injustice  to  Derby¬ 
shire  scenery;  while,  if  he  be  in  pursuit  of  health,  he  can  find  no  better  resting-place 
than  at  the  renowned  hydropathic  establishments  which  occupy  the  heights.  Still,. 


THE  PEAK  OF  DERBYSHIRE. 


most  who  are  in  search  of  the  picturesque  will  prefer  to  seek  it  at  Matlock  Bath, 
where  indeed  they  will  not  be  left  to  discover  it  for  themselves.  In  this  famous 
spot  the  beauties  of  nature  are  all  catalogued,  ticketed,  and  forced  on  the  attention 
by  signboards  and  handbills.  Here  is  the  path  to  ‘  the  beautiful  scenery  ’  (admis¬ 
sion  so  much);  there  ‘the  romantic  rocks’  (again  a  fee)  ;  there  the  ferry  to  ‘the 
Lovers’  Walk,’  a  charming  path  by  the  river-side,  overshadowed  by  trees  ;  and  so  on. 
Petrifying  wells  offer  their  rival  attractions,  and  caves  in  the  limestone  are  re¬ 
peatedly  illuminated,  during  the  season,  for  the  delight  of  excursionists.  The  market 
for  fossils,  spar,  photographs,  ferns,  and  all  the  wonderful  things  that  nobody  buys 


HADDON  HALL. 


except  at  watering-places,  is  brisk  and  incessant.  But  when  we  have  added  to  all 
this  that  the  heights  are  truly  magnificent,  the  woods  and  river  very  lovely,  and  the 
arrangements  of  the  hotels  most  homelike  and  satisfactory,  it  will  not  be  wondered 
at  that  the  balance  of  pleasure  remained  largely  in  favor  of  Matlock.  It  would  be 
certainly  pleasanter  to  discover  for  oneself  that  here  is  ‘  the  Switzerland  of  Eng¬ 
land,’  than  to  have  the  fact  thrust  upon  one’s  attention  by  placards  at  every  turn  ; 
but  perhaps  there  are  those  to  whom  the  information  thus  afforded  is  welcome, 
while  the  enormous  highly  colored  pictures  of  valley,  dale,  and  crag,  which  adorn 
every  railway  station  on  the  line,  no  doubt  perform  their  part  in  attracting  and  in¬ 
structing  visitors.  They  need  certainly  be  at  no  loss  to  occupy  their  time  toadvan- 


CHATSWORTH,  THE  *  PALACE  OF  THE  PEAK 


THE  PEAK  OF  DERBYSHIRE. 


tage,  whether  their  stay  be  longer  or  shorter.  Everything  is  made  easy  for  them. 
Practicable  paths  have  been  constructed  to  all  the  noblest  points  of  view  :  the 
fatigue  of  mountain-climbing  is  reduced  to  a  minimum  ;  and  the  landscapes  dis¬ 
closed.  even  from  a  moderate  elevation,  by  the  judicious  pruning  and  removal  of  in- 


MATLOCK. 


tercepting  foliage,  are  such  as  to  repay  most  richly  the  moderate  efiort  requisite  for 
the  ascent.  Lord  Byron  writes  that  there  are  views  in  Derbyshire  ‘as  noble  as  in 
Greece  or  Switzerland.’  He  was  probably  thinking  of  the  prospect  from  Masson, 
from  which  the  whole  valley,  with  its  boundary  of  tors,  or  limestone  cliffs,  is  out¬ 
spread  before  the  observer,  while  the  river  sparkles  beneath,  reflecting  masses  of 
foliage,  with  depths  of  heavenly  blue  between  ;  and,  beyond  the  scarred  and  broken 


THE  EE  A  A'  OF  DERBYSHIRE. 


ramparts  of  the  glen,  purple  moorlands  stretch  away  to  the  high  and  curving  line  of 
the  horizon. 

The  traveler  southward,  who  has  accompanied  us  thus  far,  if  yet  unsated  with 
beauty,  will  be  wise  in  walking  or  driving  by  road  from  Matlock  to  Cromford,  the 


HIGH  TOR,  MATLOCK. 


next  station,  instead  of  proceeding  by.  railway.  The  pass  between  the  limestone 
cliffs,  although  the  great  majority  of  passengers  leave  it  unnoticed,  is  really,  for  its 
length,  as  fine  as  almost  any  of  the  dales  in  the  higher  part  of  the  country.  At 
Cromford  there  is  the  stately  mansion  of  the  Arkwrights,  and  a  little  beyond,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  railway,  is  Lea  Hurst,  the  home  of  Miss  Florence  Nightingale, 


1 1 8 


THE  TEA  A'  OF  DERBYSHIRE. 


a  name  that  will  be  gratefully  enshrined  in  the  memories  of  the  English  people, 
even  when  war  shall  be  no  more.  From  this  spot  the  valley  gradually  broadens, 
still  richly  wooded  up  the  heights,  with  fair  meadows  on  the  river  banks.  And  so 
we  reach  Ambergate,  where  we  re-enter  the  busy  world,  bearing  with  us  ineffaceable 
memories  of  the  beauties  and  the  wonders  of  ‘  the  Peak.’ 


LEA  HURST,  MISS  NIGHTINGALE’S  HOME. 


ng 


CHEDDAR  CLIFFS. 


‘  Pause,  ere  we  enter  the  long  craggy  vale  ; 

It  seems  the  abode  of  solitude.  So  high 
The  rock’s  bleak  summit  frowns  above  our  head. 
Looking  immediate  down,  we  almost  fear 
Lest  some  enormous  fragment  should  descend 
With  hideous  sweep  into  the  vale,  and  crush 
The  intruding  visitant.  No  sound  is  here. 

Save  of  the  stream  that  shrills,  and  now  and  then 
A  cry  as  of  faint  wailing,  when  the  kite 
Comes  sailing  o’er  the  crags,  or  straggling  lamb 
Bleats  for  its  mother.  ’ 


W.  L.  Bowles. 


ON  THE  TEIGN,  DEVON. 


WESTWARD  HO! 


LMOST  every  place  of  popular  resort  has  its 
‘  season,’  when  its  charms  are  supposed  to  be 
at  their  highest,  and  the  annual  migration  of  visitors 
sets  in.  The  period  is  not  always  determined  by 
climate  or  calendar  ;  and  such  is  the  caprice  of  fashion,  that 
many  a  lovely  spot  is  left  well-nigh  solitary  during  the 
weeks  of  its  full  perfection,  the  crowd  beginning  to  gather 
when  the  beauties  of  the  place  are  on  the  wane.  Tastes 
will  undoubtedly  differ  as  to  the  most  favorable  time  to 
visit  one  or  another  beautiful  scene  ;  but  none,  we  should 
imagine,  will  dispute  our  opinion  that  the  best  season  for 
travel  in  the  west  of  England  is  in  the  early  spring.  We 
leave  the  north,  with  patches  of  snow  yet  on  the  hills, 
and  the  first  leaflets  struggling  in  vain  to  unfold  them¬ 
selves  on  the  blackened  branches ;  or,  if  we  hail  from 
the  metropolis,  we  gladly  turn  our  backs  on  wind-swept  streets  and  bleak  sub¬ 
urban  roads,  to  find  ourselves  in  two  or  three  hours  speeding  beneath  soft  sun¬ 
shine,  between  far-extending  orchards,  in  all  the  loveliness  of  their  delicate  bloom, 
while  the  grass  is  of  a  richer  tint,  the  blue  sky  dappled  with  fleecy  clouds  of  a  more 
exquisite  purity,  and  instead  of  the  slowly  relaxing  grasp  of  winter,  the  promise  of 
summer  already  thrills  the  air.  *  The  flowers  appear  on  the  earth  ;  the  time  of  the 
singing  of  the  birds  is  come,  and  the  voice  of  the  turtle  is  heard  in  our  land.’ 

But  whither  shall  we  direct  our  steps?  It  is  the  perfection  of  comfort  in  travel¬ 
ing  to  have  time  at  command.  We  need  be  in  no  haste  to  leave  the  apple-blossomy 
valleys  of  Somersetshire,  even  for  the  woods  and  cliffs  of  Devon  ;  and  if  the  tourist 


12*3 


WESTWARD  HO! 


would  visit  a  spot  which,  in  its  own  way,  is  unique  in  England,  let  him  turn  aside,  as 
we  did,  soon  after  leaving  Bristol,  to  a  rift  in  the  Mendip  Hills,  and  make  his  way 
through  the  pass  between  the  Cheddar  Cliffs.  Cut  sheer  through  the  hill,  from 
summit  to  base,  is  an  extraordinary  cleft.  The  road  which  winds  along  the  bottom 
of  the  ravine  is  in  some  places  only  wide  enough  to  allow  two  vehicles  to  pass 
abreast.  On  the  right  hand  side  a  perpendicular  wall  of  rock  rises  to  the  height  of 


THE  GLASTONBURY  THORN. 


about  four  hundred  and  thirty  feet.  Its  surface  is  broken  by  enormous  buttresses, 
like  the  towers  of  some  Titanic  castle,  surmounted  by  spires  and  pinnacles,  whose 
light,  airy  grace  contrasts  finely  with  the  massive  walls  on  which  they  rest.  Down 
the  face  of  the  cliff  long  festoons  of  ivy  and  creeping  plants  wave  to  and  fro.  The 
scanty  soil  on  the  ledges  and  in  the  fissures  is  bright  with  wild  flowers.  The  yew 
and  mountain  ash,  dwarfed  into  mere  shrubs,  seen  to  cling  with  a  precarious 
foothold  to  the  face  of  the  rock.  Far  above  us  innumerable  jackdaws  and  crows 
chatter  noisily,  and  hawks,  with  which  the  district  abounds,  soar  across  the  narrow 


I2d 


WESTWARD  HO! 


strip  of  sky  overhead.  The  opposite  side  of  the  ravine  is  less  precipitous,  though 
even  here  it  is  steep  enough  to  task  the  energies  of  the  climber,  and  grand  masses  of 


GLASTONBURY  ABBEY. 


rock  stand  out  from  the  hill-side.  Conspicuous  amongst  these  is  the  Lion  Rock,  so" 
called  from  its  extraordinary  resemblance  to  a  crouching  lion.  This  district  abounds 
in  caverns,  many  of  them  of  great  extent  and  beauty,  which  will  well  repay  a  visit. 

125 


WESTWARD  HO! 


Local  tradition  affirms  that  one  reaches  as  far  as  Wookey  Hole,  a  distance  of  ten 
miles. 

The  devoted  and  self-denying  efforts  of  Mrs.  Hannah  More  must  not  be  for¬ 
gotten  in  connection  with  Cheddar.  Barley  Wood,  her  residence,  is  but  a  few  miles 
distant  ;  and  from  this  spot  she  issued  those  religious  tracts  in  which  she  became 
the  chief  pioneer  in  the  work  that  has  now  grown  into  such  goodly  dimensions. 

From  Cheddar  the  traveler  may  either  continue  his  journey  by  way  of  Wells, 
or  may  return  at  once  to  the  main  line,  passing  near  the  coast  of  the  Bristol 


VILLAGE  IN  THE  QUANTOCKS. 

Channel,  with  a  wide  alluvial  plain  at  his  left,  once  covered  by  an  arm  of  the  sea, 
with  islands,  as  Brent  Tor  and  others,  emerging  from  the  waters,  and  reaching  as 
far  as  Glastonbury  or  Avalon—'  apple  island,’  famed  in  legend  and  song.  A  little 
farther,  and  the  marshy  plain  of  the  Parret  stretches  away  in  one  direction  to 
Sedgemoor,  scene  of  the  ‘last  battle  fought  on  English  ground,’1  that  in  which 
the  ill-fated  Duke  of  Monmouth  suffered  irretrievable  defeat,  and  in  another  to 
Athelney,  the  place  of  King  Alfred’s  retreat  and  noble  rally’  against  the  Danes.  In 
memory  of  the  stories  that  charmed  our  childhood,  we  could  do  no  otherwise  than 

1  Macaulay  The  date  was  July  6,  16S5. 


126 


WESTWARD  HO! 


take  the  branch  line  at  Durston,  whence  a  few  minutes  run  peaces  us  in  the  marsny, 
unpicturesque  scene  so  memorable  in  English  story.  The  whole  neighborhood  was 
•evidently  once  covered  with  woods  and  morasses  ;  good  drainage  has  made  it  fertile 
now,  but  it  must  be  confessed  that  it  must  depend  for  all  its  attractiveness  on  its 
associations.  On  or  near  the  traditional  site  of  the  ‘  neat-herd’s  cottage,’  an  unpre¬ 
tending  stone  pillar,  with  a  lengthy  inscription,  preserves  the  memory  of  Alfred’s 
sojourn. 

Resuming  the  journey  westward,  we  soon  discern  the  towers  of  the  Taunton 
churches,  and  may  find  a  welcome  night’s  rest  in  this  bright  and  pretty  town  ;  or, 
turning  again  off  the  main  line,  may  pass  northwest,  by  a  route  full  of  interest,  to 
the  Quantock  Hills.  On  our  way  we  pass  Combe  Florey,  famous  as  the  residence 
for  a  time  of  Sydney  Smith,  and  as  the  scene  of  some  of  the  most  characteristic 
stories  of  his  life.  But  we  must  not  linger  in  the  valley:  at  every  point  the  wooded 


ALFOXDEN,  WITH  WORDSWORTH’S  HOUSE. 

hill-slopes  tempt  us  to  climb  upwards  among  shady  groves  of  beech,  over  turf  thick 
with  primroses  and  bluebells,  then  out  upon  the  furzy  heights.  It  hardly  matters 
which  path  we  take — whether  up  Cothelstone,  whence  the  view  is  perhaps  most 
magnificent,  or  Will’s  Neck,  highest  point  of  all,  or  Hurley  Beacon.  From  hill-top 
to  hill-top  we  make  our  way,  descending  into  mossy  glens,  where  the  hill  stream 
trickles  down  in  miniature  waterfalls,  or  striking  down  some  deep  wooded  combe, 
where  the  houses  of  a  village  nestle  among  the  trees,  and  the  spacious  church  tells 
of  a  time  when  the  inhabitants  far  outnumbered  the  present  scanty  population.  In 
the  valley  below,  to  the  northeast,  we  descry  the  village  of  Nether  Stowey,  for 
some  time  the  residence  of  Coleridge,  and  farther  to  the  north,  at  the  foot  of  one  of 
the  loveliest  of  wooded  combes,  is  Alfoxden,  which  was  at  the  same  time  the  home 
of  Wordsworth.  The  two  friends  have  told  us  how  they  used  to  meet  and  discuss 
high  themes  in  many  a  charming  stroll,  their  neighbors  much  wondering  the  while, 


127 


WESTWARD  HO! 


and  the  government  of  the  day  suspecting  their  advanced  opinions.  The  end  was 
that  they  had  to  leave,  not  before  they  had  made  imperishable  record  of  the 
beauties  of  the  place.  Thus  Wordsworth  writes  to  Coleridge,  in  The  Prelude  ; 

‘  Beloved  Friend  ! 

When  looking  back,  thou  seest  in  clearer  view 
Than  any  liveliest  sights  of  yesterday 
That  summer,  under  whose  indulgent  skies, 

Upon  smooth  Quantock’s  airy  ridge  we  roved 
Unchecked,  or  loitered  'mid  her  sylvan  combes  : 

Thou  in  bewitching  words,  with  happy  heart, 

Didst  chaunt  the  vision  of  that  ancient  man, 

The  bright-eyed  Mariner,  and  rueful  woes 
Didst  utter  of  the  Lady  Christabel.’ 

The  work  here  accomplished  by  these  poets  in  their  early  days,  it  is  not  too 
much  to  say,  has  given  a  new  direction  to  poetic  thought.  In  the  Lyrical  Ballads, 


MINEHEAD. 

here  devised  and  mainly  written,  a  bold  attempt  was  made  to  leave  all  beaten  tracks 
and  accepted  conventionalisms,  and  to  combine  with  the  imagination  of  the  poet 
simplicity  and  absolute  sincerity.  Coleridge,  as  he  fells  us  in  his  Biographia  Lite- 
raria ,  took  as  his  task  the  exhibition  of  the  supernatural,  associated  with  human 
interest  and  emotion,  and  wrote  The  Ancient  Mariner.  Wordsworth  undertook  to 
set  forth  the  harmony  of  the  homeliest  scenes  and  experiences  of  life  with  high  and 
ennobling  thought ;  hence,  in  different  keys,  his  poems  of  We  are  Seven ,  Lucy  Gray , 
and  the  Lines  above  Tintern  Abbey.  We  shall  have  to  speak  of  Wordsworth  here¬ 
after  in  connection  with  his  own  beloved  Lakeland,  but  here  in  Somersetshire  we 
trace  the  bright  dawning  of  his  genius,  and  visit  Alfoxden  and  Nether  Stowey,  with 
due  reverence,  as  the  birthplace  of  modern  English  poetry. 

Coleridge,  in  a  note  to  The  Ancient  Mariner ,  says,  *  It  was  on  a  delightful 
walk  from  Nether  Stowey  to  Dulverton,  with  Wordsworth  and  his  sister,  in  the 
autumn  of  1797,  that  this  poem  was  planned  and  in  part  composed.’ 

128 


AT  LYNMOUTH 


WESTWARD  HO! 


The  great  hilly  range  to  the  west,  in  full  view  across  the  valley  from  the  Quan- 
tocks,  is  an  outlying  rampart  of  Exmoor;  and  the  brown  peak  in  the  distance  is 
Dunkery  Beacon,  the  highest  point  in  Somersetshire.  Our  road  leads  between 
these  heights  and  the  sea,  by  Dunster,  with  its  great  ivied  castle  overhanging  the 
quaint,  feudal-looking  little  town,  and  Minehead,  a  cheerful,  unpretending  watering- 
place,  to  Porlock,  where  the  ascent  of  what  the  country  people  call  a  ‘  terrible  long 
hill,’  by  a  zigzag  moorland  road,  leads  to  a  height  from  which,  on  looking  back,  we 
have  a  prospect  of  surpassing  grandeur.  Let  us  gaze  our  fill  :  if  the  day  be  fine, 
and  the  atmosphere  clear,  we  shall  see  nothing  nobler  in  the  west  of  England.  To 
the  south  the  huge  masses  of  Dunkery,  brown  with  heather,  rise  from  a  foreground 
of  woods  and  glens  ;  below,  to  the  east,  lies  a  fair  valley,  surrounded  with  hills  of 
every  picturesque  variety  in  form,  prominent  among  which  is  the  rugged  side  of 
Bossington  Beacon.  Toward  the  southeast,  heights  on  heights  arise,  some  richly 
wooded,  others  majestic  in  their  bareness ;  while  to  the  north  and  northeast 
stretches  the  Bristol  Channel,  with  the  Welsh  mountains  dimly  seen  beyond. 

Then  we  go  southwards  over  a  reach  of  wild  moorland,  and  come  upon  the 
indescribable  loveliness  of  Lynmouth  and  Lynton.  At  some  distance  from  any 
railway,  accessible  only  by  long  walking  or  driving  over  hilly  roads,  or  by  small 
boats  from  steamers  on  their  way  up  and  down  the  Channel,  this  fair  spot  can  never 
attract  the  crowd  ;  but  those  who  have  wandered  by  its  streams,  or  climbed  its 
he  ights,  are  singularly  unanimous  in  pronouncing  it  the  most  enchanting  spot  in 
England.  Lynmouth  is  in  the  valley,  on  the  shore  ;  Lynton  on  the  height,  four 
hundred  feet  above.  The  name  is  derived  from  the  lyns,  or  torrents,  which  descend 
separately,  each  through  a  wooded  gorge  or  combe,  until  they  meet  beside  the  sea. 
Great  mossy  rocks  everywhere  break  the  course  of  the  torrents,  and  the  luxuriant 
foliage  which  lines  the  banks,  the  ferns  and  flowers,  with  the  overhang-ino-  trees, 
combine  to  make  a  succession  of  perfect  pictures.  The  traveler  will,  of  course,  go 
up  Lyndale,  the  valley  of  the  East  Lyn,  as  far  as  Watersmeet,  and  will  not  omit  to 
explore  the  quieter,  more  luxuriant,  though  less  magnificent  West  Lyn.  He  will 
climb  to  the  summit  of  Lyn  Cliff,  and  will  survey  at  ease  the  prospect  from  the 
summer-house  ;  and  will  not  omit  the  extraordinary  Valley  of  Rocks,  reached  by  a 
grand  walk  along  the  face  of  the  cliff  which  overhangs  the  sea  to  the  west  of  Lynton. 
At  a  break  in  this  path  he  suddenly  comes  to  a  gigantic  gateway,  formed  of  two 
rocky  pyramids,  and  enters  upon  a  scene  which,  to  his  first  view,  appears  strewn 
with  the  fragments  of  some  earlier  world.  ‘  Imagine,’  says  Southey,  ‘a  narrow  vale 
between  two  ridges  of  hills,  somewhat  steep  :  the  southern  hill  turfed  ;  the  vale, 
which  runs  from  east  to  west,  covered  with  huge  stones,  and  fragments  of  stone 
among  the  fern  that  fills  it ;  the  northern  ridge  completely  bare,  excoriated  of  all 
turf  and  all  soil,  the  very  bones  and  skeleton  of  the  earth  ;  rock  reclining  upon  rock, 
stone  piled  upon  stone,  a  huge,  terrific  mass.  A  palace  of  the  pre-historic  kings,  a 
city  of  the  Anakim,  must  have  appeared  so  shapeless,  and  yet  so  like  the  ruins  of 
what  had  been  shaped  after  the  waters  of  the  flood  subsided.  ...  I  never  felt 
the  sublimity  of  solitude  before.’ 

The  drive  from  Lynton  to  Barnstaple,  though  not  long,  being,  we  believe, 
somewhat  under  twenty  miles,  brought  to  us  a  crowd  of  half-forgotten  associations 
of  early  days  when  coach  traveling  was  the  chief  means  of  locomotion.  The  coach 
itself  was  of  the  old  build,  spick  and  span  in  its  neatness;  the  coachman  was  of  old- 


WESTWARD  HO! 


fashioned  ways;  the  four  sleek  horses  were  no  mere  omnibus  hacks,  but,  as  they 
warmed  to  their  work  up  and  down  hill,  showed  a  mettle  akin  to  that  of  roadsters  in 
days  long  ago.  The  villages  on  the  way  had  no  sign  of  ‘  Station  ’or  ‘  Station  Hotel  ’ 
about  them  ;  children  ran  from  the  cottage  doors  to  shout  after  the  coach,  or  to  bring 
primroses  and  violets  to  the  passengers  ;  rustics  gathered  for  a  chat  where  the 
coachman  pulled  up,  as  he  did  tolerably  often,  for  time  seemed  but  a  slight  consider¬ 
ation  in  that  old-world  region.  And  all  around  was  outspread  a  landscape  of  rich, 
ever-changing  loveliness,  ruddy  in  soil,  rich  in  verdure,  as  at  one  time  we  descended 
into  lanes,  half-embowered  by  the  already  luxuriant  hedgerows,  and  at  another 
emerged  upon  an  open  moorland,  swept  by  soft  breezes  from  the  sea,  and  enghdled 

by  the  hazy  forms  of  distant 
hills.  At  length  the  estuary  of 
the  Taw  came  into  view,  the 
houses  of  Barnstaple  appeared, 
the  coach  drove  into  the  station 
yard,  and  we  were  in  the  world 
again. 

Another  route  might  have 
b,een  taken  from  Lynton  to 
Ilfracombe,  by  way  of  Combe 
Martin,  with  its  fine  and  rocky 
bay ;  but  we  were  anxious  to 
reach  less  crowded  and  familiar 
spots  than  the  famous  North 

Devon  watering-place,  though 
this  also  is  in  its  way  delightful. 
We  must,  however,  see  one  or 
two  farther  points  on  the  coast 
before  striking  inland  again 

and  accordingly  took  up  our 
night’s  quarters  at  Bideford, 
famed  for  the  length  of  its 

bridge  and  the  steepness  of  its. 

streets.  Emerging  early  in  the 
morning  from  the  highest  part 
of  the  town,  we  made  our  way 
to  Westward  Ho  !  that  magni¬ 
ficent  possibility,  whose  stately  mansions  and  hotels,  broad  quays  and  pier, 
surrounded  by  vessels  from  all  parts,  with  its  broad,  level  plain  by  the  sea  and 
noble  background  of  wooded  hills,  had  so  often  captivated  us  in  railway-station 
waiting-rooms.  We  found  it  all  there,  except  the  mansions,  the  quays,  and  the 
ships!  The  bay  is  glorious,  the  plain  upon  the  shore  stretches  far  and  wide, — to 
the  satisfaction  of  golfers,  for  whose  favorite  game  no  spot  can  be  better  adapted  l 
there  is  a  great  pebble  ridge,  a  natural  breakwater  two  miles  long  and  fifty 
feet  wide,  composed  of  rounded  pebbles  of  carboniferous  ‘  grit  ’  ;  the  background 
of  wooded  cliffs  is  magnificent,  while  a  lonely  pier,  one  commodious  hotel,  a 
bath-house  on  a  splendid  scale,  some  rows  of  villas,  lodging-houses,  and  one  or  two 


132 


WESTWARD  HO! 


educational  establishments,  give  promise  of  the  prosperity  which  seems  only  too 
long  in  coming. 

Returning  to  Bideford,  we  started  at  sunrise  the  next  morning  for  Clovelly,  with 
high  expectations,  and  under  the  auspices  of  the  British  Government,  as  our  chosen 
vehicle  was  the  ‘  mail-cart,’  in  the  shape  of  a  very  comfortable  wagonette  filled  with 
pleasant,  chatty  passengers,  all  the  livelier,  perhaps,  from  the  good-humored  con¬ 
sciousness  of  merit  which  early  rising  is  apt  to  engender.  The  road  was  not  particu¬ 
larly  striking,  save  for  glimpses  of  the  Channel  seen  through  the  light  morning  haze  ; 
the  breath  of  spring  was  in  the  air,  and  when  we  alighted  at  the  ‘  Hobby’  gate  we 
were  fully  prepared  for  the  three  miles’  walk  by  which  our  breakfast  was  yet  to  be 
earned.  The  path,  in  reality  a  broad,  well-kept  drive,  is  carried  along  the  face  of 
the  cliff,  which  shelves  gradually,  covered  thickly  with  trees  and  brushwood,  to  the 
shore,  while  the  bank  towers  above,  soft  with  moss  and  beautiful  with  flowers.  The 
cliff  curves  in  and  out  irregularly  ;  broken  in  one  or  two  places  by  deep  glens,  over 
which  the  road  is  carried  by  rustic  bridges.  Long  shadows  lay,  that  morning,  across 
the  path  ;  above  and  below,  the  tender,  budding  foliage  clothed  the  dark  branches  of 
oak  and  elm,  hazel  and  beech,  in  every  variety  of  shade  ;  the  air  was  musical  with 
birds,  and,  stirred  by  the  gentle  morning  breeze  and  the  whisper  of  the  boughs, 
blended  with  the  distant  murmur  of  the  sea.  It  was  a  walk  to  be  remembered.  At 
length,  at  a  turning  of  the  road,  Clovelly  came  into  sight*  about  a  mile  distant — a 
seemingly  confused  heap  of  houses  emerging  on  all  sides  from  thick  woodland,  and 
slanting  steeply  down  to  a  stone  pier  jutting  out  into  a  little  bay.  At  the  end  of  the 
Hobby  walk,  the  summit  of  the  village  was  gained,  and  we  were  soon  descending  its 
curious  steep  street,  not  without  longing  looks  at  the  quaint  little  lodging-houses,  all 
untenanted  as  yet.  Clovelly  is  a  place  to  linger  in  and  to  dream  !  The  practical 
need  of  the  hour,  however,  was  breakfast,  during  the  preparation  of  which  meal  it 
was  pleasant  to  sit  in  the  hotel  balcony,  and  look  out  upon  the  bay,  with  its  lines  of 
light  and  shadow,  and  the  long  outline  of  Lundy  Island  showing  clear  in  the  dis¬ 
tance  :  for  now  the  morning  mists  had  lifted,  and  the  brightness  of  spring  was  over 
sea  and  land.  A  walk  of  marvelous  beauty  followed,  into  the  park  of  Clovelly 
Court,  over  springing  turf,  through  woodlands  budding  into  leaf,  and  along  a  stretch 
of  rugged  wilderness,  preserved,  with  some  art,  in  its  primitive  simplicity.  Thence, 
by  a  winding  pathway,  or  up  a  steep  grassy  slope,  the  highest  point  may  be  reached — 
a  noble  cliff,  called,  from  some  old  local  story,  Gallantry  Bower.  A  little  summer¬ 
house,  nestling  in  the  cliff-side,  commands  a  grand  range  of  cliffs,  with  their  curved, 
contorted  strata,  peculiar  to  the  carboniferous  formation,  while  many  a  jutting  or 
broken  crag  gives  a  castellated  aspect  to  this  bold  rampart  of  the  coast.  Inland,  the 
scene  is  full  of  beauties  of  hill  and  glen,  in  almost  measureless  variety  ;  but  we 
could  not  linger  to  survey  them  all  ;  for  our  way  lay  in  another  direction,  before  we 
could  feast  again  on  the  splendors  of  cliff  and  sea. 

Hartland  Point,  a  little  farther  on,  is  the  true  ‘  Land’s  End’  of  Devonshire,  the 
terminating  promontory  of  Bideford  Bay,  a  tongue  of  grassy  land,  not  more  than 
thirty  or  forty  feet  wide,  at  the  summit  of  a  tremendous  precipice  on  either  side, 
pointing  to  a  similar  projection  on  the  opposite  Welsh  coast,  like  twin  pillars  of 
Hercules,1  guarding  the  estuary  of  the  Severn. 

It  would  now  have  been  easy  to  visit  Bude  Haven,  and  so  to  travel  south  and 

1  Ptolemy,  the  geographer  (second  century),  is  supposed  to  have  referred  to  Hartland  Point  as  the  ‘  Promontory  of  Hercules.’ 


133 


WESTWARD  HO! 


southwest  a!ong  the  cliffs  which  fringe  the  Atlantic,  but  our  present  plan  was  to 
strike  inland  to  Dartmoor.  The  little  town  of  Okehampton  was  therefore  our  first 
destination,  reached  by  a  somewhat  dull  route, — whichever  road  may  be  taken, — but, 
when  gained,  most  interesting.  The  town  lies  in  a  valley,  watered  by  a  swift, 
romantic  river,  which,  at  one  point,  sweeping  round  a  wooded  hill,  crowned  by  the 
ruins  of  an  old  castle,  forms  as  lovely  a  picture  as  anything  of  the  kind  in  England. 
Kingsley  abuses  Okehampton  unjustly,  we  think  ;  but,  whatever  may  be  thought  of 
the  town  and  its  immediate  neighborhood,  there  can  be  no  doubt  as  to  the  wonder- 


ON  THE  DART  :  BERRY  POMEROY  CASTLE  AND  HARFORD  BRIDGE. 


ful  interest  of  the  excursions  that  may  be  taken  from  it  as  a  center.  From  the 
castle  hill,  as  from  other  points  in  the  town,  the  chief  object  that  arrests  the  eye  is 
the  vast  brown  sweep  of  rising  ground,  suggestive  of  mysterious  desolation  beyond, 
which  we  know  to  be  the  boundary  of  Dartmoor.  Ascending,  we  find  ourselves  at 
first  on  pleasant,  breezy  though  treeless,  heights  ;  but  we  keep  to  beaten  paths, 
and  pursue  our  onward  journey.  At  length  the  moorland  track  over  which  we  have 
passed  seems  to  rise  behind  us  and  shut  out  the  world  ;  and  as  we  gaze  around,  we 
feel  that  all  pictures  which  we  had  framed  to  ourselves  of  wild  deserted  solitudes  are 


134 


WESTWARD  HO! 


surpassed.  ‘  Like  the  fragments  of  an  earlier  world,’  is  again  the  comparison  that  rises 
to  the  lips.  We  are  not  unfamiliar  with  moorland  scenery — with  Rombald’s  Moor, 
for  instance,  in  Yorkshire,  beautiful  in  its  variety  of  color,  from  the  tender  green  and 
softening  grays  and  browns  of  spring,  to  the  purple,  heathery  splendors  of  the  autumn, 
while  the  song  of  lark  and  linnet  overhead,  or  the  plaintive  cry  of  the  lapwing,  gives 
animation  to  the  scene.  But  at  Dartmoor  is  a  new  experience  of  desolation.  The 
stupendous  mass  of  granite  which  here  crops  up  from  hidden  depths  is  coveied  on  its 
broken  surface  with  thick  peat,  in  which  the  blackened  trunks  of  trees  occasionally 
give  evidence  of  a  time  when  the  range  was  clothed  with  wood,  but  which  now,  for 
the  most  part,  bears  only  coarse  grass  and  moss,  with  heather  and  whortleberry  in  the 
most  favored  localities.  Broad  spaces  are  covered  by  morass  and  bog,  dangerous  to 


DARTMOOR. 


the  unaccustomed  pedestrian.  Scanty  streams  break  from  the  heights,  and  hurry  in 
all  directions  down  to  the  valley,  swollen  to  wild  fury  after  a  storm.  1  he  ‘  tors,’  or 
shapeless  masses  of  rock,  which  stand  out  from  the  peaty  surface  in  all  directions, 
are  but,  as  it  were,  the  jagged  projections  from  the  interior  rock-skeleton.  Some 
may  be  readily  ascended;  Yes  Tor  (probably  East  lor,  pronounced  Devonshire 
fashion)  being  the  highest,  and  on  many  accounts  the  best  worth  climbing.  1  he 
prospect  of  the  moor  from  this  or  any  other  commanding  point  can  only  be  described 
as  awful  in  its  grim,  monotonous,  silent  desolation  ;  the  only  beauty  being  that  of 
swelling  distant  outline,  or  frequently  that  of  color,  when  the  atmosphere  is  clear 
between  the  frequent  showers  and  the  rays  of  the  sun  light  up  the  heather  and  the 
moss,  diversifying  the  dark  shadows  of  the  tors  with  the  various  hues  of  green,  with 

135 


WESTWARD  HO  r 


the  ruddy  gleam  of  withered  fern,  and  brown  rushes  in  many  a  morass.  But  let  not 
the  traveler  be  too  hopeful  of  sunshine  and  clear  air  !  For,  as  the  local  rhyme 
says  : 

‘  The  south  wind  blows,  and  brings  wet  weather  ; 

The  north  gives  wet  and  cold  together  ; 

The  west  wind  comes  brimful  of  rain, 

The  east  wind  drives  it  back  again. 

Then,  if  the  sun  in  red  should  set, 

We  know  the  morrow  must  be  wet ; 

And  if  the  eve  is  clad  in  gray, 

The  next  is  sure  a  rainy  day.’ 

Still,  the  slopes  by  which  Dartmoor  descends  to  the  lowlands  around  are  beauti¬ 
ful.  In  fact,  the  mighty  granite  mass  is  girdled  by  an  investiture  of  fair  glens  and 
•smiling  villages,  which  yield  a  succession  of  some  of  the  brightest  pictures  that  Eng¬ 
land  can  anywhere  present  in  the  same  compass.  The  drive  from  Okehampton  to 
Chagford,  or  to  Moreton  Hampstead,  for  instance,  is  of  wonderful  charm.  Near  the 

former  village,  the  river  Teign  descends 
over  rocks  and  bowlders  in  a  richly 
wooded  glen,  as  beautiful  in  parts  as 
Dovedale.  The  rivers,  indeed,  which 
come  down  on  all  sides  from  Dartmoor, 
are  the  glory  of  Devonshire.  Besides 
the  Teign,  there  is  the  Dart  itself,  one 
head-stream  of  which  rises  near  the  well- 
known  prison  at  Prince  Town  ;  with  the 
Taw,  Tavy,  Avon,  Erme,  Plym,  and 
streamlets  innumerable. 

The  traveler  is  only  embarrassed  by 
the  choice  of  beautiful  routes.  If  from 
Moreton  Hampstead  he  elects  to  cross 
over  to  the  valley  of  the  Dart,  making 
Totnes  or  Ashburton  his  headquarters,  or 
if  he  proceed  by  the  romantic,  rock-strewn 
upland  of  Lustleigh  to  Teignmouth  or 
Torquay,  he  will  find  the  journey  full  of  charm.  But  perhaps,  if  the  weather  be 
bright,  he  may  long  for  more  bracing  air  than  he  will  find  amid  the  soft  beauties  of 
South  Devon.  If  so,  he  will  do  well  to  cross  Dartmoor  by  the  coach-road,  from 
Moreton  Hampstead  to  Tavistock,  past  the  big,  gloomy  prison,  appropriately  placed 
in  the  very  wildest  and  most  desolate  part  of  the  whole  region.  Or,  as  we  did,  pro¬ 
ceeding  to  Okehampton,  he  may  pass  along  the  western  side  of  Dartmoor  by  way 
of  Lidford.  The  railway  is  carried,  in  places  at  a  great  height,  on  the  open  edge  of 
the  moor,  which  it  curiously  fringes  :  it  seems  essentially  a  holiday  line  ;  there  is  no 
burry,  and  the  traveler,  as  he  passes  along,  may  leisurely  survey  the  frowning 
heights  above,  or  the  fair  valley  below,  according  to  his  choice. 

Lidford  station  being  reached,  we  left  the  train,  and  found  ourselves  in  an  un¬ 
finished-looking  spot,  with  little  outwardly  to  attract.  Having,  however,  received 
directions  how  to  proceed,  we  crossed  a  farmyard,  where  some  cattle  with  stupen¬ 
dous  horns  looked  and  lowed  at  us  in  a  manner  trying  to  the  nerves.  Then,  emerg- 
136 


LITTLE  MIS  TOR. 


WESTWARD  HO! 


ing  near  a  river  bank,  we  made  our  way  for  less  than  a  mile  up  the  stream,  on  a 
grassy  path  beneath  overhanging  woods,  when,  at  a  sudden  turn  up  a  glen  that 
opened  to  the  main  stream,  the  gleam  of  waters  caught  the  eye,  at  the  first  glance 
like  some  tall  spirit  of  the  dell,  glimmering  through  the  foliage  that  enshrouded  it. 
A  more  beautiful  cascade  is  hardly  to  be  seen  in  England,  when  Dartmoor  has  had 
an  abundance  of  rain.  At  other  times,  they  say,  a  friendly  miller  can  turn  on  a 
supply  of  water,  else  thriftily  economized  for  his  needs.  Happily,  no  such  artificial 
arrangement  was  needful  on  the  occasion  of  our  visit  ;  and  we  remained  long  admir¬ 
ing  the  lovely  picture. 

Retracing  our  steps,  we  climbed  to  the  village,  crossing  on  our  way  a  common¬ 
place-looking  bridge,  of  a  single  arch,  at  a  dip  in  the  road,  with  the  sound  of  a  great 
rush  of  waters  beneath.  We  looked  over  the  parapet,  but  could  discern  nothing, 
owing  to  the  mass  of  thick  shrubs  and  foliage  which  overarched  the  stream,  and 
made  our  way  up-hill  to  the  village.  Here  the  traveler  is  directed  to  the  church¬ 
yard,  to  see  a  curious  epitaph  on  a  watchmaker,  in  which  some  rather  obvious  allu¬ 
sions  to  human  life  are  borrowed  from 
his  craft.  Students  of  mortuary  inscrip¬ 
tions  are  thankful  often  for  small  mercies 
in  the  way  of  wit,  and  are  not  always 
careful  to  note  where  the  humor  de<ren- 
crates  into  irreverence  or  worse. 

Meanwhile  we  had  learned  something 
about  the  bridge  that  we  had  crossed  just 
before,  and  the  rush  of  waters  below. 

Returning,  therefore,  and  making  applica¬ 
tion  at  the  house  close  by,  we  were  con¬ 
ducted  down  into  a  rocky  gorge,  through 
which  rushes  the  Lid,  one  of  the  Dartmoor 
streams,  a  tributary  of  the  Tamar.  The 
cliffs,  irregular  and  castellated,  are  seventy 
•feet  high  ;  a  narrow,  dangerous  path  is 
carried  along  one  side  of  the  rock,  and  the 
wild  foaming  waters  in  the  dark,  narrow 
glen  carry  back  the  traveler’s  mind  to  Switzerland.  Certainly  there  is  nothing  like 
‘  Lidford  Bridge  ’  elsewhere  in  England  :  the  Strid  in  Bolton  Woods  may  equal  it 
in  its  rush  of  waters;  but  the  rocks  there  lie  in  the  open  woodland,  and  the  stream 
is  but  a  few  feet  below  their  summit  ;  here  the  beetling  precipices  almost  meet 
above,  as  at  the  ‘  Devil’s  Bridge  ’  in  Cardiganshire,  and  there  are  weird  stories,  at 
both  places,  of  travelers  on  horseback  who  have  leaped  the  bridge  unconsciously,  by 
night,  when  broken  down,  only  discovering  their  peril  and  their  escape  on  the  fol¬ 
lowing  day. 

From  Lidford  to  Tavistock  was  an  easy  ride,  and  we  found  this  pleasant  town  a 
place  every  way  suitable  for  a  Lord’s  Day  rest.  Outwardly,  the  great  charm  of  the 
locality  is  the  meeting-place  between  the  wildness  of  Dartmoor  and  the  rich  cultiva¬ 
tion  of  the  valley  ;  while  some  walks  by  the  river  are  of  a  tranquil  and  serene  beauty, 
only,  as  it  seems  to  us,  to  be  found  in  England,  and  to  be  enjoyed  on  the  Day  cf 
Rest.  Perhaps  our  feeling  is  in  a  great  measure  due  to  association  ;  but  if  so  we 


HEY  TOR  ROCKS. 


137 


WESTWARD  HO  ! 


have  to  thank  association  for  one  of  the  happiest  evenings  we  have  known.  Next 
morning  we  explored  the  remains  of  the  Abbey, — now  ‘  restored  ’  and  put  to  hetero¬ 
geneous  uses, — a  public  library,  a  Unitarian  chapel,  and  a  hotel,  but  hardly  so 
picturesque  as  in  its  older,  more  neglected  condition. 

Our  journey  is  continued  by  a  short  railway  trip  which  carried  us  across  the 
Cornish  border  to  Launceston,  where  a  climb  through  pretty  pleasure  grounds  to 
the  keep  of  the  old  castle,  on  the  knoll  that  rises  steeply  from  the  town,  gave  us 
a  fine  view,  from  the  bulky  range  of  Dartmoor  on  the  one  side,  to  the  craggy  outline 
of  the  Cornish  hills  on  the  other. 


ON  THE  SLOPES  OF  DARTMOOR. 


Our  object,  however,  was  now  to  reach  the  coast ;  and  as  a  good  test  of  our 
pedestrian  powers,  already  pretty  well  exercised  in  the  course  of  this  charming  tour, 
we  determined  to  walk  over  the  hills  in  the  direction  of  the  sea,  knowing  that  even 
if  our  powers  failed  some  passing  ‘  van  ’  would  take  us  up,  and  convey  us  in  a  primi¬ 
tive  fashion  to  the  nearest  town.  But  we  persevered,  and  having  accomplished  nine 
or  ten  miles  of  an  undulating,  monotonous  road,  were  rewarded  by  the  first  glimpse 
of  the  Atlantic,  with  the  cloud  shadows  lying  afar  upon  the  untroubled  sapphire; 

138 


WESTWARD  HO! 


,  though  no  breeze  stirred,  there  was  a  sense  of  freshness  in  the  air  that  encour¬ 
aged  us  to  press  on  to  our  journey's  end.  At  length  we  reached  it,  in  a  village  to 
name  which  is  to  raise  in  the  minds  of  those  who  have  visited  it  memories  most  delight- 
ful  ;  while  to  the  multitude  it  is  and  will  probably  remain  unknown.  We  will  not 
call  it  Trelyon,  after  the  fashion  of  a  popular  novelist,  who  has  given  us  some  of 


LIDFORD  CASCADE. 

the  most  brilliant  word-pictures  of  this  scenery  which  our  literature  contains.  Nor 
is  it  unkindness  to  the  happy  few  who  already  know  Boscastlc,  and  one  delightful 
homelike  retreat  from  the  world  which  it  contains,  to  raise  the  veil  a  little  farther. 
That  the  village  is  several  miles  distant  from  a  railway  station,  tlv  <  there  is  no  public 


139 


WESTWARD  HO / 


conveyance  to  it  but  the  *  vans  ’  already  referred  to,  that  gas  is  a  luxury  unknowns 
are  points  in  its  favor  to  those  who  think,  like  the  Frenchman  : 

‘  How  sweet,  how  passing  sweet,  is  solitude  ! 

But  give  me  just  one  friend  in  my  retreat, 

To  whom  to  whisper,  “  Solitude  is  sweet.”  ’ 

For  society  may  be  found  at  Boscastle — the  society  of  the  chosen  few.  The 
place  itself  is  unique.  Through  tiny  meadows  a  streamlet  flows  swiftly  toward 


LIDFORD  GORGE. 


the  sea,  entering  a  fissure  where  the  hills,  swelling  upward  on  either  hand,  rise  to 
towering  cliffs,  inclosing  a  harbor,  up  which  the  tide  surges  restlessly  to  meet  the 
stream,  then  as  restlessly  subsides.  Behind  the  cliff,  on  the  western  side,  up  a  broad 
cleft  from  the  brink  of  the  rivulet  to  the  hill-summit,  runs  the  village,  inhabited  by  a 
hardy,  independent,  self  contained  race  of  Cornish  people,  proud  of  their  scenery,  as 
they  may  well  be.  The  slate  cliffs,  in  endless  diversity  of  craggy,  pointed  form, 

140 


WESTWARD  HO! 


skirt  the  sea  which  ever  chafes  against  their  bases  ;  here  and  there  a  little  inlet  far 
below  shows  a  surface  of  smooth  white  sand,  inaccessible  from  the  land,  or  to  be 
reached  only  by  the  surefooted  climber,  familiar  with  every  step.  Broad  grassy 
slopes  crown  the  cliffs,  and  every  turn  discloses  magnificent  views  of  sea  and  shore. 

One  walk,  along  the  cliffs  to  Tintagel,  starting  from  Willapark  Point,  the  head 
land  that  rises  so  grandly  to  the  west  of  the  little  bay,  was  of  an  interest  which  per¬ 
haps  no  other  coast  scene  in  England  can  fully  match.  First,  Forrabury  Church 
was  passed,  with  its  silent  tower;  the  bells  once  destined  for  it  lying,  according  to 
tradition,  close  by,  at  the  bottom  of  the  Atlantic.  The  ship  that  conveyed  them 
was  nearing  the  port.  ‘Thank  God  for  a  fair  voyage,’ said  the  pilot.  ‘  Nay,’  re¬ 
plied  the  captain,  ‘thank  the  ship,  the  canvas,  and  the  fair  wind.’  It  was  in  vain 
that  the  pilot  remonstrated ;  but  even  while  the  ship  was  rounding  the  point  a 
sudden  storm  gathered,  the  vessel  was  dashed  upon  the  rocky  coast,  all  perished 
save  the  pilot,  and  the  bells,  sinking  to  the  deep,  tolled  solemnly,  as  if  for  the  fate 


TAVISTOCK. 


of  those  who  would  not  acknowledge  God.  Still,  it  is  said,  when  the  storm  rises 
high— 

‘Those  bells,  that  sullen  surges  hide,  peal  their  deep  notes  beneath  the  tide  : 

“  Come  to  thy  God  in  time  !  ” — thus  saith  the  ocean  chime  : 

“  Storm,  billow,  whirlwind  past,  come  to  thy  God  at  last.”  ’ 

Such  is  a  specimen  of  the  tales  told  at  many  a  Cornish  fireside.  As  we  pass  on 
we  feel  more  and  more  that  we  are  in  the  country  of  legend  and  song.  The  rolling 
uplands  that  stretch  inland,  with  the  deep  vales  and  furzy  hollows  that  intersect 
them,  are  renowned  as  the  realm  of  King  Arthur,  the  hero  of  British  history  and 
fable.  Here,  on  the  shore  of  the  Atlantic,  he  may  have  gathered  his  good  knights 
around  him,  to  stand  with  them  against  the  heathen  invader ;  or  it  may  be  that  here 
he  was  born,  according-  to  the  legend  ;  while  *  the  great  battle  of  the  west,’  in  which 
the  hero  disappeared,  is  said  to  have  been  fought  at  Camelford,  in  the  neighbor¬ 
hood.  Local  legends  are  full  of  this  royal  name  ;  and  if,  as  some  will  have  it,  King 
Arthur  never  existed,  the  universality  of  the  tradition  is  all  the  more  rermukable 


WESTWARD  HO! 


The  impress  of  his  memory  and  life  is  everywhere.  Of  a  little  cottage  maiden  who 
guided  us,  we  asked  her  name.  ‘  Jinnifer,’  was  the  reply — an  unconscious  perpetua¬ 
tion  of  the  name  of  Guinevere. 

A  lovely  wooded  glen  breaks  the  cliff  half-way  to  Tintagel,  at  the  head  of 
which  the  explorer  will  find  a  waterfall,  in  a  wild  forest  ravine,  both  on  a  somewhat 
miniature  scale  ;  but  in  the  accessories  of  rock-hewn  walks,  with  clinging  shrubs  and 
mountain  spring  flowers,  watered  by  the  dashing  spray,  the  dell  was  perfect.  St. 
Nighton’s  (Nectan’s)  Kieve,  or  basin,  as  this  romantic  nook  is  called,  is  a  sudden 
and  welcome  change  from  the  wild  sublimity  of  the  rocks  above,  and  the  ceaseless 
thunder  of  the  Atlantic.  But  we  must  reascend  ;  and  soon,  from  our  turfy  path 


THE  DART  AT  DITTERSHAM. 


upon  the  height,  we  come  into  full  view  of  a  stupendous  rock,  standing  a  little 
way  out  to  sea,  the  home  of  myriads  of  sea-birds  that  circle  the  rock  with  weird 
cries,  or,  descending  in  flocks,  skim  the  surface  of  the  waves.  They  have  evi¬ 
dently  learned  to  fear  the  gun  and  to  distrust  mankind. 

Trevena,  now  approached,  is  an  irregular  village,  straggling  toward  the  cliff 
in  a  single  street  of  gray  houses.  The  ancient  church  is  on  a  wind-swept  headland 
to  the  west ;  where,  in  the  stormiest  corner,  we  found  the  grave  and  monument 
of  Mr.  Douglas  Cooke,  the  first  editor  of  the  Sattirday  Review.  It  was  curious  to 
be  reminded  of  the  conflicts  of  literature  at  this  meeting-place  of  tempests.  Even 


142 


TINTAGEL  CASTLE  AND  ROCKS 


WESTWARD  HO! 


the  tombstones  require  buttresses  of  masonry  to  support  them  against  the  fury  of 
the  ocean  blast ! 

The  ruins  of  Tintagel  Castle,  famed  in  song  and  story,  stand  partly  upon  a 
bold  headland,  partly  upon  the  opposite  hill.  The  two  portions  were  once,  it  is 
said,  connected  by  a  massive  bridge.  Now  a  low  isthmus  of  sharp,  slaty  rock  divides 
them.  By  a  steep  path,  almost  like  a  natural  staircase,  we  ascended  from  this  ridge 
to  the  ruins  on  the  promontory.  These  are  jagged,  time-worn  ;  little  plan  or  order 
can  be  traced  ;  such  fragments  of  building  as  still  exist  are  no  doubt  of  much  more 
recent  origin  than  Arthur’s  time  ;  the  outward  glory  of  the  scene  is  all  in  the  majes¬ 
tic  sweep  and  serried  outline  of  the  stupendous  cliffs,  with  the  long  roll  of  the  sea 
breaking  ceaselessly  into  billows  at  their  base.  The  stillness  is  unbroken,  save  for 
this  ocean  music,  mingling  with  the  hoarse  cry  of  sea-birds,  and  the  occasional  bleat¬ 
ing  of  the  few  sheep  which  pasture  here.  The  sense  of  isolation  becomes  at  last 
oppressive,  and  we  gladly  retrace  our  steps  to  the  mainland. 


ST.  PIRANS,  PERRANZABULOE. 


Boscastle  remains  for  a  time  our  home  :  it  is  a  never-ceasing  delight  to  climb  to 
some  nook  of  the  cliffs,  east  and  west,  which  inclose  the  little  harbor,  or  to  stroll 
down  to  the  little  pier — a  trying  walk  at  certain  seasons,  because  of  a  chemical 
manure  manufactory  on  the  way— or  to  ramble  over  the  grassy  slopes,  inhaling  the 
pure  breezes  of  the  Atlantic.  The  Sunday  spent  in  the  neighborhood  was  one  of 
peculiar  delight.  Wandering  inland,  we  found  a  church  in  the  depths  of  a  wood  ; 
the  congregation  seemed  to  emerge,  we  knew  not  how,  from  deep  bowery  lanes  and 
by-paths  among  the  trees  ;  the  service  was  none  the  less  impressive  for  the  singing 
of  birds  without,  and  the  fragrance  of  spring  blossoms,  stealing  through  the  open 
windows.  The  sermon,  too,  was  appropriate,  a  tender,  practical  exhortation  to 
‘delight  ourselves  in  God.’  In  the  evening  of  the  same  day,  in  the  hush  of  twi  light, 
taking  our  accustomed  path  over  the  cliffs,  we  came  upon  a  group  of  people,  old 


145 


WESTWARD  HO! 


and  young,  who  had  evidently  come  thither  after  an  early  evening  service  at  one  of 
the  chapels  :  they  were  holding  a  prayer-meeting  in  the  rocky  nook — singing  a 
hymn  as  we  approached,  the  burden  of  which  was  ‘  Over  there,’  while  wistful  eyes 
gazed  across  the  now  purple  sea  to  the  splendors  which  lingered  in  the  west  after 
sunset,  as  though  reminded  by  those  tints  of  heavenly  glory  of  the  land  that  is  very 
far  off.  It  was  good  for  the  stranger  to  pause  by  the  way,  to  join  in  that  touching 
strain,  and  add  his  Amen  to  that  Sabbath  evening  prayer. 

Boscastle  was  so  attractive  that  the  rest  of  a  long  journey  had  to  be  performed 


land’s  end. 


in  haste.  Camelford,  Wadebridge,  St.  Columb,  were  all  rapidly  passed,  the  lonely 
ruins  of  Perranzabuloe  Church,  amid  great  sandy  dunes,  and  more  than  half- 
ingulfed,  suggested  curious  antiquarian  questions,  which,  it  may  be,  none  now  can 
solve;  we  then  went  on  to  Truro  and  Redruth,  and  after  climbing  Carnbrea,  near 
the  latter  town,  and  hearing  some  of  the  marvelous  stories  connected  with  that  giant 
hill,  we  took  rail  for  Penzance,  anxious,  at  least,  to  visit  St.  Michael’s  Mount,  the 
Logan  Rock,  and  the  Land’s  End.  But  what  impressed  us  most,  when  we  reached 
that  last  and  prettiest  of  Cornish  towns,  was  the  climate.  We  had  believed  it 

146 


WESTWARD  Dor 


.spring  ;  but  here  it  was  already  summer  !  The  last  struggle  with  wintry  frosts  was 
over,  and  the  woods  and  fields  were  decked  with  all  their  wealth  of  verdure  ;  the 
air  had  lost  its  sharpness,  and  the  rich  coloring  of  every  part  of  the  scene,  from 
the  golden  furze  upon  the  hills  to  the  ruddy  lichen  on  the  rocks,  seemed  to  reflect 
the  genial  glow.  Mount’s  Bay,  still  and  blue,  was  wonderful  in  its  contrast  with  the 
Atlantic  surges  that  we  had  just  left  on  the  opposite  shore.  We  thought  of  the 
words  with  which  Emerson  begins  one  of  his  lectures  :  ‘  In  this  refulgent  summer  it 
has  been  a  luxury  to  live.’ 

St.  Michael’s  Mount,  that  extraordinary  combination,  geologically  speaking,  of 
granite  and  clay-slate,  remarkable,  too,  in  its  correspondence  with  the  much  larger 
Mont  St.  Michel  on  the  shore  of  Normandy,  is  as  interesting  a  place  to  visit  as  it  is 
beautiful  to  look  upon.  The  views  from  its  summit  over  the  sea  and  land  are  of 
surpassing  loveliness,  and  to  enjoy  them  to  the  full  it  is  not  necessary  to  make  the 
hazardous  attempt  to  sit  in  ‘St.  Michael’s  Chair,’ — the  half,  it  is  said,  of  an  old  stone 
lantern,  overhanging  the  precipice  in  a  very  perilous  way.  The  villagers  round  the 
bay  will  tell  you  that  the  archangel  himself  appears  in  this  ‘  chair’  when  a  storm  is 
raging,  and  firmly  believe  that  he  is  the  guardian  spirit  of  the  seas. 

The  Logan  Rock,  to  which  we  next  directed  our  steps,  was  disappointing  in 
more  ways  than  one  :  the  finest  part  of  the  cliff  scenery  being  the  great  granite 
headland,  which  visitors  are  apt  to  pass  unnoticed  in  searching  for  the  natural 
curiosity,  and  in  recalling  the  story  of  its  fall  and  reinstatement.  There  are,  in  fact, 
many  ‘  logan  ’  or  logging  rocks  in  granite  districts,  locally  called  Tolmens  ;  one, 
formerly  in  the  parish  of  Constantine,  between  Penrhyn  and  Helston,  being  larger 
than  this  on  the  coast,  though  without  its  magnificent  accessories.  Their  peculiar 
position  is  caused  by  the  influence  of  air  and  moisture  wearing  a  fissure  in  the  rock, 
until  a  detached  upper  portion  rests  only  on  a  small  central  base.  The  wonder  is  in 
the  bigness  of  the  rock  thus  balanced,  and  in  the  evenness  of  the  process  of  disin¬ 
tegration  all  round  :  the  vast  majority  of  bowlders  worn  away  by  such  agencies  being 
•of  course  overbalanced,  so  as  to  fall  on  one  side.  The  mechanical  restoration  of  this 
Logan  Rock  to  its  position,  and  the  appliances  necessary  to  keep  it  in  balance,  give 
an  artificial  air  to  the  whole,  and  we  were  glad  to  turn  away  to  the  stupendous  cliff 
scenery,  pursuing  a  path  along  the  rocks  to  the  Land’s  End. 

The  great  western  promontory  has  been  so  often  described  that  we  need  but 
refer  to  our  artist’s  delineation.  The  low  descending  promontory  from  the  great 
cliff  rampart  behind,  the  narrowness  of  the  ‘neck  of  land’  between  ‘two  unbounded 
seas,’ — to  adopt  the  phrase  of  Charles  Wesley’s  well-known  hymn,  here  composed, — 
the  rocky  islands  near,  on  which  the  lighthouse  stands,  and  the  ever-chafing  restless 
surge,  make  up  a  picture  which  fills  the  imagination  in  many  after  days. 

It  was  now  time  to  turn  our  thoughts  and  our  course  homeward.  Very  reluct¬ 
antly  we  left  the  south  of  Cornwall  unvisited — the  Lizard  Point,  Kynance  Cove,  and 
the  magnificent  harbor  of  Falmouth,  with  its  flanking  castles  of  Pendennis  and  St. 
Mawes.  Then  there  were  the  great  southern  towns  of  Devonshire,  with  their  beau¬ 
ties  manifold, — Plymouth  and  Torquay,  with  the  lovely  little  watering-places  of 
Teignmouth  and  Dawlish,  and  stately  Exeter  itself.  On  previous  occasions  we  had 
visited  them  all,  had  spent  long  dreamy  hours  in  Anstey’s  Cove,  then  comparatively 
unvisited  by  excursionists,  had  tenanted  humble  lodgings  at  Babbicombe  Bay,  before 
the  villas  were  built,  and  had  sailed  down  the  lovely  winding  Dart  to  Dartmouth. 


147 


WESTWARD  HO! 


with  its  harbor  among  the  hills.  The  natural  beauties  are  still  there,  though  art  has 
done  much  of  its  best  or  its  worst  with  them  since  those  days. 

But  we  must  now  pass  them  all  by,  only  in  imagination  breathing  their  soft 
southern  airs,  or  casting  hasty  glances  at  one  or  other  of  them  from  the  carriage 
windows  of  the  romantic  South  Devon  Railway.  For  we  have  tarried  amid  the 
attractions  of  the  far  west  until  the  latest  possible  moment.  A  little  after  six  in  the 
morning  we  leave  Penzance  ;  at  six  in  the  evening  we  are  in  London, 


st.  Michael’s  mount. 


DERWEXT  WATER. 


Deep  stillness  lies  upon  this  lovely  lake, 

The  air  is  calm,  the  forest  trees  are  still; 

The  river  windeth  without  noise,  and  here  k 

The  fall  of  fountains  comes  not,  nor  the  sound 
Of  the  white  cataract  Lodore  :  the  voice — 

The  mighty  mountain  voice — itself  is  dumb.’ 

B.  W.  Procter. 


THE  ENGLISH  LAKES. 


ONE  great  attraction  of  the  Lake  district  of  Cumberland  and  Westmoreland  lies 
in  its  singular  compactness.  Equal  beauties,  and  greater  sublimity,  may  be 
found  elsewhere,  but  nowhere  surely  has  such  immense  variety  of  natural  charms 
been  gathered  within  the  same  space.  A  good  pedestrian  might  pass  from  the  north 
of  the  district  to  the  south — from  Keswick  to  Windermere — in  a  single  day  ;  or  in 
even  less  time  might  make  his  way  from  east  to  west — from  Patterdale  to  the  foot  of 
Wastwater.  True,  in  so  hurried  a  journey  he  would  lose  much  ;  for  weeks  may  be 
spent  delightfully  among  the  mountains  in  exploring  their  hidden  nooks  and  won¬ 
ders.  But  all  that  is  most  beautiful  is  within  the  compass  of  a  short  tour  ;  and  an 
observation  which  Mr.  Ruskin  has  somewhere  made  about  Switzerland  is  as  true  of 
this  enchanting  country.  He  say  that  the  loveliest  and  sublimest  scenes  are  to  be 
witnessed  from  beaten  roads  and  spots  easy  of  access  ;  that  things  as  wonderful  are 
open  to  the  view  of  the  traveler  who  cannot  leave  his  carriage  as  to  the  Alpine  moun¬ 
taineer.  There  is  no  doubt  an  exhilaration  of  mountain  air  only  to  be  enjoyed  on  the 
heights  ;  and  for  the  prospect  of  billowy  uplands  all  around  the  spectator, like  a  Titanic 
ocean  stricken  into  stillness,  the  visitor  to  the  Lakes  ought  to  ascend  Helvellyn  ; 
but  the  views  from  the  valleys,  or  from  the  roads  that  encircle  the  lower  slopes  of  the 
mountains,  are  incomparable.  Familiar  as  is  the  road  from  Ambleside  to  Grasmere, 
or,  in  another  style  of  beauty,  the  drive  to  Red  Bank  and  High  Close,  or,  in  yet 
another,  the  ascent  to  the  Castle  Hill  at  Keswick,  they  never  lose  their  charm,  even 
to  those  who  prefer  to  leave  these  easy  ways  for  the  toilsome  walk  over  the  Stake 
or  Sty  Head  Pass,  or  up  the  shaly  steeps  of  Scafell  or  the  tremendous  grassy  slopes 

151 


THE  ENGLISH  LANES. 


of  Skiddaw.  The  glories  of  this  district  are,  in  a  word,  for  all  who  have  eyes  to  see 
and  hearts  to  feel. 

First  impressions  have  great  effect,  especially  in  the  approach  to  beautiful 
scenery  ;  and  there  are  at  least  three  ways  to  the  Lake  district  from  the  south, 
which  compete  one  with  another  in  their  interest.  The  first  is  by  rail,  northward 
from  Lancaster  to  Penrith,  passing  by  the  outside  or  eastern  edge  of  the  fells  which 
bound  the  mountain  region.  This  journey  throughout  is  of  wonderful  beauty, 
especially  where  the  broad  grassy  fells  rise  steeply  on  one  side  of  the  line,  and  on 
the  other  the  hill  abruptly  descends  to  the  river  Lune,  here  little  more  than  a 
mountain  streamlet,  eddying  and  sparkling  through  wooded  dells.  From  Penrith,  a 
branch  line  to  Keswick  passes  in  the  latter  part  of  its  course  through  an  exquisite 
glen,  watered  by  the  streams  that  come  down  from  the  great  Blencathara  ridge,  with 
many  a  glimpse  of  picturesque  crags,  clothed  with  fern,  shrubs,  and  flowers  jutting 
from  the  mountain’s  base.  All  this  well  prepares  the  traveler  for  the  glorious  view 


AMONG  THE  FELLS. 


that  greets  him  when  he  emerges  from  the  station  at  Keswick,  and  looks  forth  upon 
the  amphitheater  of  mountains. 

Another  method  of  approach  is  by  leaving  the  Lancaster  and  Carlisle  Railway 
at  the  junction  for  Kendal,  so  proceeding  to  the  Windermere  terminus,  situated  on 
a  height  commanding  a  magnificent  view  of  the  upper  part  of  the  lake.  The  sudden¬ 
ness  with  which  this  scene  is  disclosed,  as  well  as  the  completeness  of  its  beauty, 
makes  it  to  many  the  favorite  mode  of  access.  It  is  also  perhaps  the  most  conven¬ 
ient,  conveyances  to  every  part  of  the  district  being  ready  as  the  trains  come  in. 
The  traveler,  however,  should  it  be  his  first  visit,  will  do  well  to  go  up  to  Orrest 
Head,  behind  the  hotel,  from  which  the  whole  of  Windermere,  with  its  islands  and 
encircling  mountains,  forms  a  truly  enchanting  prospect,  suggesting  to  the  delighted 
spectator  the  wonders  beyond. 

But  there  is  another  way  of  entering  this  fairy  region,  by  which  its  beauties  are 
not  suddenly  disclosed,  but  grow  one  by  one  upon  the  sight.  The  unique  and  im¬ 
pressive  character  of  the  approach  gives  this  method  of  access,  perhaps,  the  advantage 


THE  ENGLISH  LANES. 


'over  every  other.  So  we  say  to  every  reader  who  has  not  as  yet  visited  the  lakes, 
Go  by  the  overland  railway  along  the  edge  of  Morecambe  Bay  :  and  to  those  who 
have  visited  it  by  other  routes,  Go  again  by  this  !  The  line  crosses  two  estuaries,  of 
ithe  Kent  and  of  the  Leven.  When  the  tide  is  up,  the  effect  of  passing  through  a 
wide  expanse  of  sea  rising  to  within  a  few  feet  of  the  embankment  on  both  sides  is 
•wonderfully  striking;  and  at  low  water,  the  great  reaches  of  sand  are  scarcely  less 
impressive.  Morecambe  Bay,  with  its  curving  shore  and  many  inlets,  is  at  all  times 
beautiful,  and  the  mountain  ranges  are  seen  dimly  in  outline  across  its  waters.  At 
several  points  the  railway  embankment  seems  to  have  effected  a  change  in  the  sea- 
level  ;  fields  now  fertile  being  fringed  on  the  side  farthest  from  the  bay  by  low  cliffs, 
the  bases  of  which  were  evidently  at  no  remote  period  washed  by  the  waters.  A 
vast  additional  area  might,  one  would  think,  be  still  reclaimed  by  engineering  skill 
without  any  serious  cost.  But  we  pass  on  to  Ulverston,  where  we  change  carriages, 
rather  than  proceed  at  present  to  Furness'  and  Coniston  ;  the  direct  entrance  to 
the  district  being  by  a  short  railway  along  the  shore  of  the  Leven  up  to  the  foot  of 
Windermere.  We  pass  through  a  pretty  wooded  valley  beside  the  bright,  swiftly 
descending  stream,  and  at  the  terminus,  bn  the  brink  of  the  lake,  find  a  little  steamer 
ready  to  pass  upward.  At  first  the  charms  of  Windermere  resemble  those  of  some 
fair,  broad  river,  flowing  between  ranges  of  low  wood-crowned  hills  ;  but  the  lake 
soon  opens,  and  after  we  have  passed  Belle  Isle,  opposite  Bowness,  any  disappoint¬ 
ment  we  may  have  felt  at  first  yields  to  unbounded  admiration.  The  mountains  at 
the  head  of  the  lake  disclose  their  grand  outlines,  appearing  to  change  their  relative 
positions  at  every  turn  of  the  steamer  ;  and  some  persons  acquainted  with  mountain 
scenery  in  many  lands  pronounce  the  view  of  these  heights  a  little  before  sunset  in 
summer-time  to  be  unsurpassed  in  beauty.  Wansfell  Pike  on  the  right,  Fairfield  in 
front,  and  the  Langdale  Pikes  in  the  distance  on  the  left,  with  the  broken  lines  and 
broad  uplands  of  Loughrigg  Fells  between,  all  invested  with  the  shadowy  tints  of 
•evening,  form  a  picture  which  in  its  tender  aerial  loveliness  seems  ready  to  vanish 
while  we  gaze. 

If  the  ways  of  entering  this  fair  district  are  manifold,  so  are  the  method  and 
order  in  which  its  attractions  may  be  viewed.  These  must  be  studied  in  the  guide¬ 
books,  and  every  traveler  will  shape  his  route  for  himself.  In  this,  much  will  depend 
on  the  time  at  command.  We  have  spent  three  days  among  the  Lakes,  and  again  a 
week,  again  a  month  ;  and  while  the  shorter  period  enabled  us  to  see  much,  the  longer 
did  but  prove  to  us  that  the  beauties  were  inexhaustible.  Some  visitors  take  Amble- 
side  as  their  headquarters,  some  Grasmere,  some  Keswick;  others,  happier  in  their 
decision,  have  no  headquarters  at  all,  but  range  from  place  to  place.  As  a  center  we 
prefer  Grasmere  ;  but  every  one  will  have,  his  own  preference.  It  may  almost  be  said 
that  the  Lake  country  has  its  controversies  and  sects,  with  as  many  divisions  of  opinion 
on  the  question  which  part  is  the  fairest,  as  on  more  important  matters.  Some  give 
the  palm  to  Ullswater  among  the  lakes,  an  equal  number  to  Derwentwater,  a  minor¬ 
ity  to  Windermere,  while  there(  are  those  who  prefer  the  silent  and  gloomy  Wast- 
water.  Then  who  shall  say  whether  the  view  from  Helvellyn,  Skiddaw,  or  Scafell 
is  the  most  marvelous  in  its  beauty?  Our  advice  is  to  join  none  of  the  sects,  to 

1  There  is  another  way  of  entering  the  district,  by  the  Furness  Railway,  and  along  the  west  coast  as  far  as  the  station  at 
Seascales  or  Drigg  :  thence  to  Wastwater  and  Wastdale  Head.  The  traveler  will  thus  plunge  at  once  into  the  wildest  and  most 
desolate  part  of  the  Lake  country,  emerging  into  fairer  scenes. 


153 


THE  ENGLISH  LANES. 


take  no  part  in  the  controversy,  to  climb  all  three  of  the  mountains,  and  to  visit,  if 
possible,  all  the  lakes ! 

After  this,  our  advice  may  be  thought  to  savor  of  partisanship,  when  we  say 
that  the  visitor  who  wishes  to  know  the  full  and  perfect  beauty  of  this  region, 
whether  he  enter  from  the  north,  or  w’est,  or  south,  must  on  no  account  neglect  to 
visit  Keswick  and  Skiddaw.  The  lovely  lake  of  Derwentwater  is  so  near  to  the  little 
town,  there  are  so  many  points,  as  Friar’s  Crag,  Castle  Crag,  and  Latrigg,  accessible 
by  the  most  moderate  walking,  and  the  day’s  excursions  from  the  place  are  so  various 
and  delightful,  that  none  will  feel  our  counsel  to  be  out  of  place.  Not  to  mention 
that,  in  the  by  no  means  rare  or  improbable  event  of  a  rainy  day,  there  are  the  pencil 
factories  and  the  models  of  the  Lake  district.  The  latter  should  be  seen  alike  by 
those  who  have  traversed  the  region,  and  by  those  who  have  not ;  the  former  will  be 
interested  in  recognizing  the  places  that  they  have  visited,  and  the  latter  in  making 
out  their  intended  tours. 


friar’s  CRAG,  KESWICK. 


The  great  excursion  from  Keswick  is  one  which  is  made  by  multitudes  on  foot 
or  in  carriages  ;  and  for  variety  of  charm  within  a  comparatively  short  compass  its 
equal  is  hardly  to  be  found.  First,  the  road  leads  between  the  lake  and  an  almost 
perpendicular  crag,  wooded  to  the  summit.  Barrow  Falls,  in  the  pleasure-grounds 
of  a  mansion,  may  be  visited  on  the  way  ;  and  few  will  omit  to  see  Lodore,  at  the 
other  end  of  the  lake.  The  charm  here  is  that  of  a  steep  and  rocky  glen  ;  rarely 
indeed  does  the  ‘water  come  down,’  at  least  in  the  summer-time,  after  the  fashion 
described  in  Southey’s  famous  lines.  Then  the  grandeurs  of  Borrowdale,  unfold 
themselves,  and  Rossthwaite,  in  the  heart  of  this  valley,  is  the  very  ideal  of  seques¬ 
tered  loveliness.  The  road,  turning  to  the  right  at  Seatoller,  climbs  a  long,  steep 
hill  beside  a  dashing  torrent.  A  little  way  beyond  the  summit  is  Honister  Crag, 
most  magnificent  of  inland  cliffs  ;  and  so,  amid  wild  rock-scenery  on  either  hand,  we 
descend  to  Buttermere.  The  drive  now  discloses  a  grand  amphitheater  of  moun- 


154 


THE  ENGLISH  LANES. 


tains,  whose  summits  form  a  rugged,  everchanging  line  against  the  sky.  Soon  the 
little  inn  is  reached  ;  but  we  would  advise  no  tourist  so  to  occupy  himself  with  the 
welcome  refreshment,  though  flavored  with  that  ‘best  sauce,’  a  sharp-set  appetite,  or 
even  with  the  ever-amusing  ‘  Visitors’  Book,’  as  to  neglect  rowing  across  Crummock 
Water,  when  a  walk  of  about  a  mile  will  take  him  to  Scale  Force,  in  its  deep  rocky 
glen,  the  loftiest  and  noblest,  as  well  as  the  most  secluded  of  the  lake  waterfalls. 
The  drive  back  from  Buttermere  to  Keswick,  by  the  Newland  Valley,  or  the  Vale 
of  Lorton,  with  its  old  yew-tree,  is  full  of  interest,  from  the  bold  mountain  forms 
ever  in  view,  but  has  not  the  wonderfully  varied  beauty  of  the  Borrowdale  and 
Seatoller  route. 

Everybody,  as  we  have  said,  takes  this  drive  :  but  there  is  an  excursion  known 
to  comparatively  few,  not  a  very 
long  one,  but  ‘  beautiful  exceed¬ 
ingly.’  Should  a  morning  at  Kes 
wick  be  unemployed,  or  if  the 
question  should  arise,  in  the  inter¬ 
val  of  wider  explorations  :  ‘What 
shall  I  do  to-day?’  our  advice  is  to 
go  up  to  Watendlath.  This  is  a 
narrow  upland  valley,  extending 
from  the  head  of  the  stream  that 
supplies  Barrow  Fall,  to  that  which 
comes  down  at  Lodore,  then  up 
by  the  latter  to  the  tarn  from 
which  it  flows,  It  may  be  reached 
by  one  of  two  or  three  routes  from 
below,  and  after  a  short  ascent  the 
traveler  finds  himself,  as  it  were,  in 
the  very  heart  of  the  hill  ;  a  still 
and  lovely  world,  above  the  beaten 
ways,  with  nature’s  fragrance  and 
music  all  around.  We  have  sug- 
gested  ‘a  morning’  for  the  excur¬ 
sion,  but  it  is  still  better  to  pro¬ 
ceed  leisurely ;  resting  on  some 
turfy  bank  beside  the  path  in  happy 
talk  with  congenial  friends  ;  or,  if  alone,  in  quiet  communion  with  our  own  souls 
and  with  Him  who  has  made  the  world  so  beautiful.  In  the  earlier  parts  of  the 
walk,  the  occasional  views  over  Derwentwater,  and  down  to  Bassenthwaite,  with  Skid- 
daw  towering  grandly  in  one  direction  and  the  Borrowdale  Mountains  in  another, 
are  magnificent;  but  in  the  heart  of  the  glen,  leading  up  beside  the  Lodore  torrent, 
these  are  gradually  left  behind.  When  the  hamlet,  and  the  tarn  with  its  bright 
rippling  waters,  at  length  are  reached,  and  the  torrent  has  been  crossed  by  a  little 
rustic  bridge,  Rossthwaite  is  descried  below,  and  may  be  reached  by  a  steep 
descent ;  or  the  stout  pedestrian  may  strike  boldly  over  Armboth  Fell  for  I  hirlmere, 
at  the  foot  of  Helvellyn,  or,  if  he  please,  may  climb  still  higher  by  the  side  of  the 
Lodore  stream  until  he  reaches  Blea  Tarn,  high  among  the  fells. 


155 


THE  ENGLISH  LANES. 


Which  of  the  three  great  mountains  of  the  Lake  district  to  choose  in  preference 
for  an  ascent,  it  would  be  hard  to  say.  On  the  whole  our  own  associations  would 
lead  us  to  select  Skiddaw  ;  but  if  Helvellyn  and  Scafell  can  also  be  ascended,  so 
much  the  better.  The  distant  views  from  Skiddaw  of  the  Solway  Firth  and  the 
Scottish  hills  are  very  fine  in  clear  weather;  but  undoubtedly  the  wild  magnificence 
of  the  mountain  groups  as  seen  from  Helvellyn  is  incomparable.  The  majesty  of 
Scafell  is  the  majesty  of  desolation.  Carlyle  says  : 

‘From  this  center  of  the  mountain  region,  beautiful  and  solemn  is  the  aspect  to 

the  traveler.  He  beholds 
a  world  of  mountains,  a 
hundred  savage  peaks — like 
giant  spirits  of  the  wilder¬ 
ness  ;  there  in  their  silence, 


BORROWDALE. 

in  their  solitude,  even  as  on  the  night  when  Noah’s  deluge  first  dried.’ 1 

But  of  all  mountain  scenes,  that  which  most  abides  in  our  memory  is  that  which 
was  suddenly  outspread  before  us  one  summer  evening,  a  little  before  sunset,  in 
descending  Skiddaw.  The  afternoon  had  brought  swirling,  blinding  mists  about  our 
upward  path  ;  we  had  reached  the  summit  with  difficulty,  only  to  find  ourselves 
enveloped  on  all  sides  in  a  white,  chilly  sea  of-  cloud.  Passing  breezes  and  sweeping 
sheets  of  vapor  had  created  the  hope  that  the  mists  would  soon  pass  away  :  but  it 

1  Sorter  Resort  us. 


156 


THE  ENGLISH  LANES. 


seemed  in  vain  to  wait,  and  we  began  descending.  Then,  as  we  reached  a  little  knoll 
on  the  mountain  s  side,  the  mist  parted  before  us,  and  in  an  instant  had  rolled  far 
back  on  either  side.  I  hrough  its  vast  shadowy  portal,  it  was  as  if  Paradise  were  un¬ 
veiled  ;  the  atmosphere  below  was  perfectly  transparent  and  still  ;  the  rays  of  the  sun 
were  reflected  in  crimson  glory  from  the  lake,  so  as  in  an  instant  to  bring  to  the 
mind  of  every  member  of  our  party  the  Apocalyptic  vision  of  the  ‘sea  of  glass, 
mingled  with  fire.  I  he  splendor  lighted  up  every  mountain  side  where  it  fell  ;  their 
crags  were  gold  and  purple,  the  verdure  of  the  upland  slopes  and  thick  woods,  with 
the  living  green  of  the  woods  and  meadows,  gleamed  with  a  more  than  tropical  bril¬ 
liancy  ;  and  the  long  dark  shadows,  which  everywhere  lay  athwart  the  scene,  only  set 
in  brighter  contrast  the  surrounding  glory.  The  mists  fleeted,  vanishing  as  they 
ascended  the  mountain  side  ;  the  magnificence  of  coloring  soon  subsided  into  quiet 
loveliness,  then  into  a  sober  gray  ;  the  vision  had  faded,  leaving  deep  suggestions  of 


THE  BOWDER  STONE,  BORROWDALE. 

those  possibilities  of  beauty  everywhere  latent  in  this  fair  creation,  perhaps  to  be 
fully  disclosed  when  the  new  heavens  and  new  earth  shall  appear. 

Space  fails  us  now  to  speak  of  the  rival  beauties  of  Ullswater,  where  the 
surrounding  mountains  are  closer  and  grander  than  in  any  other  part  of  the  district. 
Every  competent  pedestrian  we  would  advise  to  walk  to  this  lake  from  the  border  of 
Thirlmere,  over  the  summit  of  Helvellyn.  Should  this  be  too  great  a  tax  on  the 
tourist’s  powers,  he  will  find  the  way  by  Griesdale,  a  pass  between  Fairfield  and 
Helvellyn,  a  very  practicable  walk,  amid  grand  scenery.  And  when  Ullswater  is 
reached,  what  more  charming  nook  can  there  be  than  Patterdale,  deep  set  among  the 
hills?  After  a  little  time  spent  there,  we  pant  perhaps  for  more  open  scenery  and  a 
more  stimulating  atmosphere  ;  and  there  is  the  climb  over  Kirkstone  Pass  to  meet 
our  desire,  and  to  carry  us  back  10  beautiful  Windermere,  our  first  love  and  our  last, 
in  all  this  haunted  realm  ! 


157 


THE  ENGLISH  LAKES. 


We  have  pursued  for  the  most  part  a  beaten  track,  verily  believing,  as  we  said 
at  the  outside,  that  here  the  choicest  beauties  are  to  be  found.  But  there  is  many  a 
hidden,  little-visited  nook  where  the  superadded  charm  of  solitude  seems  to  enhance 
all  the  rest  ;  and  we  shall  be  indignantly  told  by  many  that  we  have  left  the  loveliest 
spots  without  a  mention.  What  can  be  more  perfectly  beautiful  than  the  views  from 
the  hill-sides  above  the  head  of  Coniston  Water?  What  valley  can  vie,  in  its  com¬ 
bination  of  lofty  cliff,  green  slopes,  richly  varied  woodland,  and  gleam  of  rushing 


ULLSWATER. 


waters,  with  the  approach  from  Coniston  to  Little  Langdale  ?  The  few  who  in 
another  part  of  the  district  follow  the  Liza  down  to  Ennerdale  will  have  it  that  there 
is  a  wild  beauty  in  this  glen  which  gives  it  a  charm  beyond  all  others.  And  so  it  is, 
on  the  other  side,  with  the  scarcely  larger  band  of  visitors  to  secluded  Mardale  and 
wild  and  lonely  Haweswater.  Then,  as  to  mountain  passes,  the  climber  sneers  at 
Griesdale,  calls  Kirkstone  a  ‘turnpike-road,’  thinks  there  is  nothing  worth  an  effort 
but  the  Stake,  between  Langdale  and  Borrowdale,  or  Sty  Head,  between  Langdale 
and  Wastdale,  or  Black  Sail  and  Scarf  Gap,  from  Wastdale  to  Buttermere.  And 
158 


THE  ENGLISH  LA  EES. 


even  these  passes  are  not  Alpine.  Go  in  a  fault-finding  mood,  and  you  will 
discover  that  the  torrents  are  without  volume,  that  the  mountains  lack  elevation, 
that  the  lakes  are  insignificant  in  size.  But  the  man  whose  eye  and  heart  are  open 
to  the  impression  of  beauty  will  be  indifferent  to  these  comparisons,  will  rather  rejoice 
in  the  limitations  which  permit  every  element  of  grandeur  and  loveliness  to  be  gath¬ 
ered  into  so  small  a  space  ;  and  for  ourselves  we  may  say  that  we  never  have  appre- 


THE  UPPER  FALLS,  RYDAL. 


dated  the  charm  of  the  English  Lakes  so  truly  as  when  we  have  visited  them  after  a 
tour  amid  the  mightier  wonders  of  Switzerland. 

At  Ambleside  there  is  many  a  resting-place  in  which  to  recall  the  pleasures  and 
sum  up  the  impressions  of  the  journey,  and  to  dwell,  as  many  love  to  do,  upon  the 
associations  of  one  and  another  great  name  by  turns  with  almost  every  part  of  the 


159 


1  HE  ENGLISH  LANES. 


district.  First  and  foremost  is  Wordsworth,  the  poet  of  nature, — the  great  ‘  Lake 
Poet,’  only  because  nature  here  is  at  her  loveliest, — who,  from  his  home  at  Grasmere, 
and  afterwards  at  Rydal  Mount,  gave  utterance,  more  richly,  truly,  deeply  than  any 
writer  of  his  generation,  of  man’s  delight  in  the  Creator’s  work.  The  association  of 
his  name  with  his  beloved  Lake  country  is  imperishable.  Many  years  ago  De 
Quincey  wrote,  with  reference  to  Wordsworth’s  earlier  poems  :  ‘  The  very  names  of 
the  ancient  hills — Fairfield,  Seat  Sandal,  Helvellyn,  Blencathara,  Glaramara  ;  the 
names  of  the  sequestered  glens — such  as  Borrowdale,  Martindale,  Mardale,  Wastdale, 
and  Ennerdale;  but,  above  all,  the  shy,  pastoral  recesses,  not  garishly  in  the  world’s 
eye,  like  Windermere  or  Derwentwater,  but  lurking  half  unknown  to  the  traveler  of 
that  day — Grasmere,  for  instance,  the  lovely  abode  of  the  poet  himself,  solitary,  and 
yet  sowed  as  it  were  with  a  thin  diffusion  of  humble  dwellings — here  a  scattering, 
and  there  a  clustering,  as  in  the  starry  heavens — sufficient  to  afford,  at  every  turn 
and  angle,  human  remembrances  and  memorials  of  time-honored  affections,  or  of 
passions  (as  the  “  Churchyard  amongst  the  Mountains”  will  amply  demonstrate),  not 
wanting  even  in  scenic  and  tragical  interest — these  were  so  many  local  spells  upon 
me,  equally  poetic  and  elevating  with  the  Miltonic  names  of  Valdarno  and  Vallom* 
brosa.’ 1 

The  spell  remains,  though  some  of  the  aspects  of  the  scenery  have  changed.. 
Grasmere,  for  instance,  is  no  longer  a  ‘shy,  pastoral  recess’  as  when  the  poet,  with 
his  sister  Dora,  spent  those  happy  days  of  ‘plain  living  and  high  thinking’  described 
in  The  Recluse ,  but  the  stream  of  life  that  daily  pours  through  the  valley  cannot 
impair  its  beauty.  This  of  all  the  lakes  possesses,  when  the  wind  is  still,  the  supreme 
charm  of  perfect  stillness  and  transparency.  We  have  seen  it  when  it  was  absolutely 
impossible  to  distinguish  its  richly  wooded  banks,  or  the  island  near  its  center,  from 
their  reflection  in  its  unrippled  water.  The  unclouded  blue  of  the  heavens  was 
mirrored  as  in  fathomless  depths.  It  was  a  ‘  sea  of  glass,  like  unto  crystal.’  It  may 
be  hoped  that  this  loveliness  will  be  uninvaded  by  anything  which  would  mar  its 
perfection.  We  know  that  Wordsworth  pathetically  protested  against  the  invasion 
of  the  railway;  but  on  the  height  which  the  Windermere  station  occupies,  at  the  very 
portal  of  this  beautiful  land,  it  in  no  degree  interferes  with  the  enjoyment  of  the 
scenery,  while  facilitating  the  access  of  multitudes  who  could  not  otherwise  share  the 
delight.  The  railway  station  at  the  foot  of  the  lake,  that  on  the  border  of  Coniston, 
and  even  that  at  Keswick,  are,  so  to  speak,  outside  the  magic  circle ;  but  we  can 
fully  sympathize  with  Mr.  Ruskin  and  others  who  have  employed  such  strenuous, 
efforts  to  resist  every  threatened  or  possible  inroad.  The  very  compactness  of  the 
region,  and  the  ease  with  which,  when  once  reached,  it  may  be  traversed  throughout, 
might  lead  the  most  impatient  traveler  to  be  satisfied  with  the  existing  means  of  swift, 
access.  When  the  border  is  gained,  let  him  proceed  leisurely,  and  enjoy.  If  young, 
the  stage-coach  traveling,  which  is  here  so  common,  may  yield  him  an  unfamiliar, 
though  old-fashioned,  kind  of  delight.  To  judge  from  our  own  youthful  recollections, 
as  well  as  from  the  literature  of  a  past  generation,  there  was,  in  favorable  circum¬ 
stances  of  scenery  and  weather,  an  exhilaration  in  such  journeys,  even  over  wild 
passes  like  Kirkstone,  which  never  is  or  can  be  known  in  the  rapid  rush  through  rail¬ 
way  cuttings,  and  over  high  embankments,  behind  the  ‘  Erebus  ’  or  ‘  Phlegethon,’  at 
the  rate  of  fifty  miles  an  hour !  And  many  an  elderly  or  middle-aged  man  almost. 

'Works,  vol.  ii.,  p.  124. 

160 


THE  ENGLISH  LAKES. 


unconsciously  exults  in  the  renewal  of  his  youth  in  the  grand  coach-drive  from 
Windermere  over  Dunmail  Raise  to  Keswick.  It  is  too  early  yet  to  judge  whether 
the  chief  beauty  of  this  drive  will  be  destroyed  by  the  enbankments  and  other 
changes  necessary  to  make  the  once  wild  and  picturesque  Thirlmere,  at  the  foot  of 
Helvellyn,  into  a  reservoir  for  the  city  of  Manchester.  Perhaps  it  may  be  thought 
better,  upon  the  whole,  that  half  a  million  of  people  should  have  an  abundant  and 
unfailing  supply  of  pure  water  than  the  delight  of  the  comparatively  few  in  a  lovely 
and  majestic  scene  should  be  preserved  intact.  Happily  there  is  much  in  this  district 
which  cannot  by  any  combination  of  engineering  ingenuities  be  ever  ‘  utilized,’  except 
for  ministering  health  to  the  body  and  mind,  for  the  enkindling  of  the  imagination, 
and  the  uplifting  of  the  soul.  This,  if  we  understand  it,  is  true  usefulness  also. 


GRASMERE. 


But  the  Manchester  appropriators  of  this  beautiful  mere  have  promised  that  when 
the  disfiguring  scars  of  the  excavators’  work  are  again  mantled  in  green,  and  the 
stone  embankments  have  toned  down  into  the  hues  of  the  surrounding  rocks,  the  lake 
will  be  larger  and  lovelier  than  before.  Our  successors  will  see  !  Meantime,  there 
is  a  rock  inscribed  with  Wordsworth’s  name,  and  often  a  favorite  resting-place  of  the 
poet.  1  hat  this  memorial  should  be  submerged  in  the  reservoir  is  a  loss  that  we 
may  be  allowed  to  deplore. 

We  return  for  a  moment  to  the  personal  associations  of  this  region.  Southey 
has  often  been  classed  with  Wordsworth  as  belonging  to  a  school  of  ‘  Lake  Poets.’ 
Nothing  could  be  more  erroneous,  as  De  Ouincey  pointed  out  long  ago.  It  is  true 
that  these  poets  both  lived  by  the  lakes  ;  but  there  is  no  sense  in  which  they  can  be 
described  as  of  the  same  ‘school.’  In  fact,  they  were  curiously  unlike  in  many  oi 


THE  ENGLISH  LANES. 


their  chief  characteristics ;  although  they  esteemed  each  other  truly  ;  and  very 
^oble  are  the  lines  which  Wordsworth  has  dedicated  to  the  memory  of  his  friend: 

‘  Wide  were  his  aims  ;  yet  in  no  human  breast 
Could  private  feelings  find  a  holier  nest. 

His  joys,  his  griefs,  have  vanished  like  a  cloud 
From  Skiddaw’s  top  ;  but  he  to  heaven  was  vowed, 

Through  a  life  long  and  pure  ;  and  Christian  faith 
Calmed  in  his  soul  the  fear  of  change  and  death.’ 1 

Other  names  arise  to  mind.  Close  under  Orrest  Head  was  Elleray,  once  the 
beautiful  home  of  Professor  Wilson,  the  ‘Christopher  North’  whose  ‘recreations’ 
were  to  describe,  in  language  of  a  rich  and  gorgeous  luxuriance  which  the  present 
generation  is  scarcely  able  to  enjoy,  but  which  the  readers  of  a  past  age  dwelt  upon 
with  rapture,  the  glories  of  mountain,  lake,  and  sky.  Fox  How  and  the  Knoll, 
between  Windermere  and  Rydal  Water,  bring  to  mind  two  very  different  names, 
each  of  great  influence  in  their  generation.  At  the  former,  Dr.  Arnold  of  Rugby 
passed  his  happy  vacations  ;  in  the  latter,  Miss  Harriet  Martineau  endeavored — 
with  what  success  we  attempt  not  here  to  judge — to  work  out  her  theory  of  life. 
The  name  of  Coleridge  also  connects  itself  with  this  region  ;  not  of  the  philosophic 
teacher  and  wonderful  talker,  though  we  have  known  the  mistake  to  be  made  by 
people  well  informed.  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge,  as  Carlyle  says,  ‘sat  on  Highgate 
Hill’;  having  left  the  lakes  in  1810  for  the  great  city,  never  to  return.  It  was  his 
son  Hartley  whose  brilliant  gifts,  in  their  fitful  and  broken  splendor,  have  caused 
the  name  of  Coleridge  to  be  remembered,  and  repeated  with  pitying  affection,  all 
through  the  Grasmere  Vale. 

We  turn  reluctantly  from  this  world  of  beauty,  happy  in  the  remembrance  of 
what  we  have  seen  and  felt,  happier  perhaps  that  so  much  remains  unvisited  in  a 
region  where  every  by-way  and  secluded  dell  has  its  own  peculiar  loveliness,  and  that 
we  may  hope  to  return  again  and  yet  again  to  explore  its  wonders.  For  the  moun¬ 
tain  climber,  are  there  not  Great  Gable,  Bowfell,  Fairfield,  Pillar  Mountain  in 
Ennerdale,  steepest  of  all,  Blencathara,  otherwise  Saddleback,  with  its  unequaled 
view  of  Derwentwater,  and  Coniston  Old  Man,  with  its  grand  prospects  over  land 
and  sea  ?  These  six  are  scarcely  inferior  in  height  to  the  imperial  three,  whose 
names  and  forms  are  most  familiar.  Then  the  Langdales  should  be  climbed  ;  one 
or  both,  as  a  position  below  the  loftiest  in  a  mountain  land  affords  the  best  point  of 
view  from  which  to  apprehend  the  grandeur  of  the  surrounding  hills.  And  after 
the  greater  lakes  have  been  duly  visited,  what  wealth  of  hidden  beauty  is  there  in 
those  retired  valleys,  where  rivulets  suddenly  expand  into  fair,  still  sheets  of  water, 
reflecting  the  mountains  at  whose  base  they  lie;  and  what  lonely  grandeur  in  the 
tarns  high  among  the  hills,  rarely  visited  by  human  foot,  and,  like  Scales  Tarn  on 
Blencathara,  so  surrounded  by  wild  crags  as  hardly  ever  to  admit  the  sunlight  ! 
Excursion  after  excursion  may  be  made,  not  only  by  the  angler,  but  by  those  who 
have  no  taste  for  such  sport,  to  these  lofty  miniature  lakes.  Or,  if  the  tourist 
delights  in  waterfalls,  let  him  seek  out  Dungeon  Ghyll  in  Langdale,  or  go  up  behind 
the  inn  at  Ambleside  to  Stock  Ghyll,  or  stop  on  his  way  through  the  valley  to 
admire  the  two  picturesque  falls  at  Rydal,  or  ramble  through  Gowbarrow  Park,  near 
Ullswater,  as  far  as  Airey  or  Ara  Force,  which  ‘  by  Lyulph’s  tower  speaks  from  the 

1  From  the  Epitaph  on  Southey,  by  Wordsworth,  in  Crosthwaite  Church,  Keswick. 


162 


THE  ENGLISH  LANES. 


woody  glen  ’ ;  or  let  him  make  a  special  excursion  to  Eskdale  to  see  Stanley  Ghyll, 
described  by  some  tourists  as  the  most  beautiful  of  all.  The  beauty  of  these  cas¬ 
cades,  and  of  others  less  famed,  arises  not  from  the  volume  of  water,  but  from  the 
picturesqueness  of  the  glens  in  which  they  lie  ;  these  being,  in  almost  every  case, 
deep  and  narrow  fissures  in  the  rock,  covered  with  ferns,  mosses,  and  shrubs  in  the 
utmost  luxuriance.  The  varied  tints  of  the  rocks  and  of  the  foliage  by  which  they 
are  clothed  give  richness  of  coloring  to  the  picture;  and  when  the  sunlight  falls 
upon  the  dashing  spray  and  the  rainbow  tints  hang  over  the  fall,  the  surpassing 
loveliness  of  the  scene  is  even  enhanced  by  the  smallness  of  its  scale. 

It  would  hardly  be  possible  to  omit,  in  any  notice  of  the  Lake  district,  however 
incomplete,  a  reference  to  the  great  uncertainty  of  the  weather.  In  the  deeper 
valleys,  especially,  as  Wastdale  and  Buttermere,  the  traveler  is  often  sorely  dis¬ 
appointed  by  incessant  rain.  Yet  even  this  has  its  compensation  in  the  increased 
translucency  of  the  air,  the  beauty  of  the  mountain  streams  and  cascades,  with  the 
incomparable  splendors  of  the  parting  clouds,  when  the  sunlight  has  smitten  them 
apart,  and  their  white  trains  vanishing  up  the  mountain  side  are  as  the  robes  of 
angels.  When  the  summer  airs  elsewhere  are  stifling,  and  the  ground  is  parched, 
the  effect  of  the  frequent  mists  and  showers  is  fully  seen.  For  then  the  whole  Lake 
country  is  as  green  as  an  emerald  ;  and,  except  in  the  deepest  valleys,  the  wearied 
brain  and  limbs  are  refreshed  by  stimulating  mountain  airs.  Such  seasons  perhaps 
are  the  best  for  a  visit  to  the  Lakes;  but  they  are  beautiful  in  winter  too,  when  the 
snows  linger  on  the  heights,  and  in  the  early  spring,  when  the  greensward  is  car¬ 
peted  with  wild  flowers,  and  in  the  autumn,  when  the  purple,  gold,  and  crimson 
clothe  the  woods  in  a  royal  array,  while  the  withered  leaves  elsewhere  strew  all  the 
ground.  ‘  Those  only  know  our  country,’  say  the  dwellers  among  the  Lakes,  ‘who 
live  here  all  the  year  round.’  Be  it  so.  It  is  good  to  carry  in  memory,  into  the 
busy,  more  prosaic  walks  of  life,  the  glimpse,  if  it  be  no  more,  of  all  this  beauty; 
and,  after  all,  it  is  the  ‘  still,  sad  music  of  humanity’  that  thrills  the  soul  more  deeply 
than  the  music  of  the  whispering  woods,  or  of  the  torrent  down  the  mountain  side. 
It  was  the  Poet  of  the  Lakes  and  Mountains  who  closed  one  of  the  noblest  of  his 
odes  by  the  words  : 

‘  Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live, 

Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  its  fears — 

To  me,  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears.’ 


YARMOUTH  JETTY. 


‘  Turn  to  the  watery  world  ? — but  who  to  thee 
(A  wonder  yet  unviewed)  shall  paint  the  sea  ? 
Various  and  vast,  sublime  in  all  its  forms, 

When  lulled  by  zephyrs,  or  when  roused  by  storms  ; 
Its  colors  changing,  when  from  clouds  and  sun 
Shades  after  shades  upon  the  surface  run, 
Embrowned  and  horrid  now,  and  now  serene, 

In  limpid  blue,  and  evanescent  green  ; 

And  oft  the  foggy  banks  on  ocean  lie, 

Lift  the  fair  sail,  and  cheat  the  experienced  eye.’ 

Crabbe, 


CROMER,  BEFORE  RECENT  BUILDINGS. 


THE  EASTERN  COUNTIES. 


OHN  FOSTER  quaintly  says  that  ‘the 
characteristic  of  genius  is,  that  it  can  light 
its  own  fire  he  might  have  added  that  it 
can  provide  its  own  fuel.  Mere  talent  is 
mainly  dependent  upon  adventitious  aids 
and  favorable  circumstances,  whilst  ge- 
nius  can  work  with  the  clumsiest  tools 
and  the  most  intractable  materials.  The 
magnificent  scenery  of  Switzerland  and 
of  the  Scotch  Highlands  has  produced 
no  artist  or  poet  of  the  first  rank.  The 
featureless  landscape  of  Holland  or  of 
East  Anglia  sufficed  for  Cuyp  or  Hob¬ 
bema  or  Ruysdael,  for  Gainsborough 
or  Constable  or  Old  Crome.  The  quiet 
loveliness  of  Warwickshire  was  enough 
for  Shakspere’s  genius.  Milton  had 
seen  the  glories  of  the  Alps  and  Apen¬ 
nines,  but  Buckinghamshire  furnished 
the  subject-matter  of  L' Allegro  and  I! 
Pcnseroso.  The  dreary  flats  of  Bedford¬ 
shire  and  Huntingdonshire  cease  to  be 
dull  and  prosaic  in  Cowper’s  verse.  The  themes  of  Tennyson’s  earlier  poems  were 
drawn  from  the  fens  and  meres  and  melancholy  swamps  of  Lincolnshire. 


CAISTOR  CASTLE. 


165 


THE  EASTERN  COUNTIES. 


The  truth  is  that  the  eye  makes  its  own  pictures,  and  sees  just  what  it  has  the 
powei  of  seeing. 

‘  O  Lady  !  we  r  jceive  but  what  we  give, 

And  in  our  life  alone  does  nature  live  : 

Ours  is  her  wedding-garment,  ours  her  shroud  ! 

And  would  we  aught  behold,  of  higher  worth, 

Than  that  inanimate  cold  world  allowed 
To  the  poor,  loveless,  ever-anxious  crowd, 

Ah  !  from  the  soul  itself  must  issue  forth 
A  light,  a  glory,  a  fair  luminous  cloud 
Enveloping  the  Earth — 

And  from  the  soul  itself  must  there  be  sent 
A  sweet  and  potent  voice,  of  its  own  birth, 

Of  all  sweet  sounds  the  life  and  element.’ 1 


From  a  sketch  by  J.  M.  Heathcote ,]  SCENE  ON  THE  FENS.  [Author  of 'Fen  and  Mere ? 


It  must,  however,  be  confessed  that  it  would  be  difficult  at  the  present  day  to 
find  poetry  or  beauty  in  the  Fen  country.  The  meres  have  been  drained,  the  swamps 
have  been  reclaimed.  The  profusion  of  aquatic  plants  and  wild-fowl  has  disappeared. 
Whittlesea  Mere  and  Ramsey  Mere  have  been  brought  under  the  plow.  Even  the 
picturesque  old  windmills  have  given  place  to  the  hideous  chimney-shafts  of  pumping 
stations  worked  by  steam.  We  may  almost  parody  the  famous  chapter  of  Olaus 
Magnus  on  *  Snakes  in  Iceland,’  and  say — there  are  no  fens  in  the  Fen  country.  If  we 
would  know  what  the  fens  were  once  like,  we  must  read  some  of  Tennyson’s  earlier 
poems,  or,  better  still  perhaps,  one  of  Kingsley’s  Prose  Idylls: 

‘A  certain  sadness  is  pardonable  to  one  who  watches  the  destruction  of  a  grand 
natural  phenomenon,  even  though  its  destruction  brings  blessings  to  the  human  race. 
Reason  and  conscience  tell  us  that  it  is  right  and  good  that  the  Great  Fen  should 

o  o 

1  Coleridge’s  Sibylline  Leaves. 


1 66 


THE  EASTERN  COUNTIES. 


have  become,  instead  of  a  waste  and  howling  wilderness,  a  garden  of  the  Lord,  where 

“All  the  land  in  flowery  squares, 

Beneath  a  broad  and  equal-blowing  wind, 

Smells  of  the  coming  summer.” 

And  yet  the  fancy  may  linger,  without  blame,  over  the  shining  meres,  the  golden 
reed-beds,  the  countless  water-fowl,  the  strange  and  gaudy  insects,  the  wild  nature,  the 
mystery,  the  majesty — for  mystery  and  majesty  there  were — which  haunted  the  deep 
fens  for  many  a  hundred  years.  Little  thinks  the  Scotsman,  whirled  down  by  the 
Great  Northern  Railway  from  Peterborough  to  Huntingdon,  what  a  grand  place, 
even  twenty  years  ago,  was  that  Holme  and  Whittlesea  which  is  now  but  a  black, 
unsightly,  steaming  flat,  from  which  the  meres  and  reed-beds  of  the  old  world  are 
gone,  while  the  corn  and  roots  of  the  new  world  have  not  as  yet  taken  their  place. 

‘  But  grand  enough  it  was,  that  black,  ugly  place,  when  backed  by  Caistor 
Hanglands  and  Holme  Wood,  and  the  patches  of  the  primeval  forest;  while  dark- 


WHITTLESEA  MERE  AS  IT  IS. 

The  Iron  Post  marks  the  subsidence  of  the  soil  (8  ft.  2  in.)  since  drainage. 


green  alders  and  pale-green  reeds  stretched  for  miles  round  the  broad  lagoon,  where 
the  coot  clanked,  and  the  bittern  boomed,  and  the  sedge-bird,  not  content  with  its 
own  sweet  song,  mocked  the  notes  of  all  the  birds  around  ;  while  high  overhead  hung 
motionless,  hawk  beyond  hawk,  buzzard  beyond  buzzard,  kite  beyond  kite,  as  far  as  the 
eye  could  see.  Far  off,  upon  the  silver  mere,  would  rise  a  puff  of  smoke  from  a  punt, 
invisible  from  its  flatness  and  its  white  paint.  Then  down  the  wind  came  the  boom  of 
the  great  stanchion-gun  ;  and  after  that  sound,  another  sound,  louder  as  it  neared  ;  a 
cry  as  of  all  the  bells  of  Cambridge,  and  all  the  hounds  of  Cottesmore  ;  and  overhead 
rushed  and  whirled  the  skein  of  terrified  wild  fowl,  screaming,  piping,  clacking, 
croaking,  filling  the  air  with  the  hoarse  rattle  of  their  wings,  while  clear  above  all 
sounded  the  wild  whistle  of  the  curlew  and  the  trumpet  note  of  the  great  wild  swan. 

‘They  are  all  gone  now.  No  longer  do  the  ruffs  trample  the  sedge  into  a 
hard  floor  in  their  fighting-rings,  while  the  sober  reeves  stand  round  admiring  the 
tournament  of  their  lovers,  gay  with  ears  and  tippets,  no  two  of  them  alike.  Gone 

167 


THE  EASTERN  COUNTIES. 


are  ruffs  and  reeves,  spoonbills,  bitterns,  avosets  ;  the  very  snipe,  one  hears,  disdains 
to  breed.  Gone,  too,  not  only  from  Whittlesea,  but  from  the  whole  world,  is  that 
most  exquisite  of  English  butterflies,  Lyccena  dispar — the  great  copper  ;  and  many 
a  curious  insect  more.  Ah,  well,  at  least  we  shall  have  wheat  and  mutton  instead, 
and  no  more  typhus  and  ague  ;  and,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  no  more  brandy-drinking  and 
Opium-eating  ;  and  children  will  live  and  not  die.  For  it  was  a  hard  place  to  live 
in,  the  old  Fen  ;  a  place  wherein  one  heard  of  “  unexampled  instances  of  longevity,” 
for  the  same  reason  that  one  hears  of  them  in  savage  tribes — that  few  lived  to  old 
age  at  all,  save  those  iron  constitutions  which  nothing  could  break  down.’1 

One  of  the  most  characteristic  walks  in  the  Fen  country  is  that  from  Peakirk 
(St.  Pega  Kirk),  a  station  on  the  Peterborough  and  Spalding  line,  to  Crowlatid.  The 
road  runs  along  the  top  of  a  high  bank,  raised  so  as  to  be  above  the  reach  of  the 
inundations.  On  either  hand  a  flat  and  dreary  plain  stretches  to  the  horizon.  It  is 


CUTTING  REEDS  IN  THE  FENS.  SOUTHEY’S  GRAVE. 

intersected  by  ditches  filled  with  black,  stagnant  water,  and  fringed  by  aquatic  plants, 
amongst  which  the  yellow  iris  is  prominent.  Here  and  there  a  farm-house, 
approached  by  an  avenue  of  pollard-willows,  and  surrounded  by  a  few  acres  of 
well-cultivated  land,  breaks  in  upon  the  monotony  of  the  scene.  Elsewhere  the 
vegetation  is  rank  and  coarse,  but  abundant,  upon  which  droves  of  horses  and  cattle 
thrive.  A  perpetual  chorus  of  croaking  from  innumerable  frogs  in  the  marshes 
accompanies  the  pedestrian  on  his  way,  to  which  the  sweet  notes  of  the  sedge-warbler 
and  other  small  birds  form  an  exquisite  accompaniment. 

In  the  winter,  when  the  fens  are  flooded  and  frozen  over,  the  scene  is  one  of 
rare  interest  and  excitement.  The  clear,  sharp  ring  of  the  skates  on  the  ice,  the 

1  Prose  Idylls ,  New  and  Old ,  by  Rev.  Charles  Kingsley. 

lt’8 


From  a  sketch  Ijy]  HOLM  LODE  (iN  THE  FEN  COUNTRY).  [/■  M-  Heathcote ,  Esq. 


THE  EASTERN  COUNTIES. 


merry  shouts  of  the  skaters,  the  stir  and  bustle  of  a  district  usually  so  dull  and  stag¬ 
nant,  the  feats  of  agility  and  skill  displayed  by  a  peasantry  usually  so  slow  and 
lethargic,  make  up  a  strange  and  novel  spectacle.  Mr.  Heathcote,  in  his  charming 
Reminiscences  of  Fen  and  Mere,  tells  that  ‘  one  of  the  fastest  pieces  of  skating  on 
record  was  performed  by  John  Gittan,  at  Padnal,  near  Ely.  The  ice  was  good,  and 
the  wind  in  his  favor  :  he  got  into  full  speed  before  reaching  the  starting-post,  and 
performed  the  distance  of  a  mile  in  two  minutes  and  twenty-five  seconds.’  He  adds 
that  ‘a  famous  performer  on  the  pattens,’  Turkey  Smart,  ‘  frequently  tried  to  skate 
a  mile  in  two  minutes,  but  without  success,  though  he  is  said  to  have  only  exceeded 
the  two  minutes  by  two  seconds.  The  ordinary  pace  of  a  fast  skater  is  one  mile  in 
three  and  a  half  or  four  minutes.’  He  who  is  so  fortunate  as  to  see  one  of  the 
great  skating-revels  of  these  Eastern  Counties  under  the  glowing  light  of  a  sunrise 


SKATING  IN  THE  FENS. 


or  a  sunset  will  not  easily  forget  it — for  the  sunrises  and  sunsets  of  the  Fen  country 
are  of  incomparable  splendor.  It  is  an  error  to  suppose  that  the  dry,  pure  atmos¬ 
phere  of  Southern  Europe  is  favorable  to  these  magnificent  effects  of  color.  Some 
of  the  finest  sunsets  we  have  ever  seen  have  been  when  walking  westward  along 
Oxford  Street  on  a  frosty  evening.  The  clouds  of  smoke  and  mist  hanging  over 
the  great  city  have  become  suffused  with  a  glory  of  crimson  and  purple  and  amber 
with  which  no  Italian  sky  can  compare.  So  in  the  Fen  country,  the  clouds  and  fogs 
driven  inland  from  the. sea,  and  the  humid  vapors  exhaled  from  the  soil,  glow  with 
all  imaginable  hues  in  the  light  of  the  setting  sun.  The  cold,  colorless  landscape 
reflects  the  radiance  and  is  tinged  with  the  colors  of  the  sky;  the  skaters  as  they 
glide  swiftly  past  through  the  golden  haze  seem  like  actors  in  some  fairy  spectacle. 

i;j 


THE  EASTERN  COUNTIES. 


Before  the  reclamation  of  the  fens,  the  swamps  and  meres  which  covered  so 
large  a  portion  of  the  soil  were  the  haunts  of  innumerable  wild  fowl,  which  were  the 
source  of  considerable  profit  to  the  fensmen.  Of  late  years  their  numbers  have 
greatly  diminished,  but  the  London  market  is  still  largely  supplied  from  this  district. 
Flat-bottomed  boats  screened  by  reeds  so  as  to  resemble  floating  islands  are  fitted 
with  heavy  duck-guns,  from  a  single  discharge  of  which  dozens  of  birds  sometimes 
fall.  One  of  the  best  duck-decoys  remaining  in  East  Anglia  lies  at  a  short  distance 
from  the  road  midway  between  Peakirk  and  Crowland.  A  small  mere,  a  few  acres 
in  extent,  forms  the  scene  of  operations.  From  this  run  eight  ditches,  or  ‘pipes,’  as 
they  are  locally  called,  ten  or  twelve  feet  wide  at  the  entrance,  and  about  a  hundred 
feet  long,  diminishing  to  a  narrow  gutter  at  the  end.  They  curve  round  so  that 
only  a  small  part  of  the  whole  is  visible  from  any  point.  They  are  inclosed  by 
walls  of  matted  reeds  and  roofed  over  by  nets.  Tame  ducks  are  trained  to  lead  the 


STALKING  SLEDGE. 


way  into  the  mouths  of  the  pipes,  and  are  followed  by  the  wild  fowl.  Little  dogs,, 
of  a  white  or  red  color,  enter  the  pipes  through  holes  made  in  reed  screens,  gambol 
about  inside  for  a  minute  or  two,  come  out  again,  and  again  show  themselves  a  little 
higher  up  the  pipe.  The  wild  fowl,  though  easily  alarmed,  are  very  curious  and 
inquisitive.  They  swim  or  fly  forward  to  investigate  this  strange  phenomenon  till 
they  have  gone  too  far  to  recede,  when  the  net  closes  upon  them,  and  the  whole 
flock  is  taken. 

In  the  days  of  yore,  when  this  district  resembled  a  great  lake  studded  with 
numerous  islands  fringed  with  willow  groves,  it  was  the  seat  of  numerous  ecclesiasti¬ 
cal  establishments  of  great  wealth  and  influence — Peterborough,  Crowland,  Ely, 
Thorney,  Spalding,  Ramsey,  and  others.  The  insulated  sites  were  favorable  to  the 
seclusion  of  the  cloister,  the  patches  of  land  were  exceedingly  fertile,  and  the  water 
abounded  with  fish  and  wild  fowl.  On  one  of  these  Fen  islands  rose  the  great 

o 

1 7 1 


THE  EASTERN  COUNTIES. 


Abbey  of  Crowland,  the  ruins  of  which  come  into  view  some  miles  before  we  reach 
it.  Its  foundation  goes  back  to  Saxon  times,  and  it  was  repeatedly  sacked  by  the 
Danes.  Turketul,  grandson  of  King  Alfred,  who  through  four  successive  reigns 
had  rendered  important  services  to  the  nation  by  his  valor  in  the  field  and  his 
wisdom  in  counsel,  returning  from  a  journey  to  the  North,  found  the  abbey  a  ruin. 
Of  the  once  flourishing  community  only  three  monks  remained  to  tell  the  story  of 
the  massacre  of  their  brethren  and  the  destruction  of  their  abbey  by  the  invaders. 
They  accommodated  their  illustrious  visitor  to  the  best  of  their  ability  amongst  the 
fire-scathed  walls  of  the  church,  and  entreated  his  intercession  with  the  kino-  for 

o 

assistance.  The  interview  made  a  deep  impression  on  his  mind,  and,  reaching 
home,  he  astonished  his  royal  master  by  avowing  his  intention  to  become  a  monk. 


WALSINGHAM  ABBEY. 


Accordingly  he  caused  proclamation  to  be  made  by  public  crier  that  he  was  anxious 
to  discharge  his  debts,  and  if  he  had  wronged  any  man  would  restore  fourfold. 
Resigning  all  his  offices,  Turketul  repaired  to  the  Fens,  devoted  himself  to  the 
rebuilding  of  the  Abbey  and  the  restoration  of  its  fallen  fortunes,  became  abbot, 
and  there  spent  the  remainder  of  his  days. 

A  curious  structure,  known  as  Crowland  Bridge,  which  stands  in  the  center  of 
the  town,  has  greatly  perplexed  archaeologists,  and  given  rise  to  various  legends. 
It  consists  of  three  semi-arches  whose  bases  stand  equi-distant  from  each  other  in 
the  circumference  of  a  circle  and  unite  in  the  center.  At  the  foot  of  one  of  the 
arches  is  a  mutilated  statue,  apparently  holding  an  orb  in  the  right  hand.  Local 
tradition  declares  that  three  rivers  ran  through  the  three  arches  into  an  immense  pit 
dug  to  receive  them,  and  that  the  statue  represents  Oliver  Cromwell  with  a  penny 


172 


THE  EASTERN  COUNTIES. 


roll  in  his  hand  !  The  most  probable  explanation  of  the  remarkable  structure  is 
that  it  was  a  high  cross  built  to  form  a  trysting-place  for  the  fensmen,  who,  when 
the  fens  were  flooded,  might  bring  hither  their  produce  for  sale  in  boats,  and  that 
the  figure  is  St.  Guthlac,  the  founder  and  patron  of  the  Abbey. 

If  East  Anglia  possesses  little  natural  beauty,  it  is  rich  in  historical  associa¬ 
tions.  Reference  has  already  been  made  to  the  many  noble  ruins  of  ancient  ecclesi¬ 
astical  buildings  throughout  the  Fen  country.  Their  traditional  reputation  has 
been  handed  down  in  an  old  rhyming  legend  : 

‘  Ramsey,  the  rich  of  gold  and  of  fee, 

Thorney,  the  flower  of  many  a  fair  tree, 

Crowland,  the  courteous  of  their  meat  and  drink, 

Spalding,  the  gluttons,  as  all  men  do  think, 

Peterborough  the  proud,  as  all  men  do  say  : 

Sawtrey,  by  the  way,  that  old  abbey, 

Gave  more  alms  in  one  day  than  all  they.’ 


CROWLAND  IN  WINTER. 


It  may  be  doubted  whether  in  any  part  of  the  world  four  such  cathedrals  can  be 
round  in  the  same  compass  as  Lincoln,  Peterborough,  Ely,  and  Norwich  ;  and,  among 
these  cities  of  East  Anglia,  Norwich  claims  special  mention.  Though  a  local  couplet 
declares  that 

‘  Caistor  was  a  city  when  Norwich  was  none, 

And  Norwich  was  builded  with  Caistor  stone,’ 

yet  the  parvenu  upstart  goes  back  to  the  time  of  the  Roman  occupation  of  the  island. 
It  was  the  capital  of  the  Saxon  kingdom  of  East  Anglia,  and  for  many  centuries 
afterwards  it  held  a  prominent  place  in  our  history.  So  early  as  the  reign  of 
Edward  III.  it  was  one  of  the  great  centers  of  our  manufacturing  industry  ;  the 
Flemish  settlers  having  here  introduced  or  developed  the  woolen  trade.  In  pre¬ 
reformation  days  it  was  a  stronghold  of  the  Wycliffites  or  Lollards,  many  of  whom 
here  sealed  their  testimony  with  their  blood.  In  1531,  Thomas  Bilneywas  added  to 
the  list  of  worthies  who  make  up  the  Norwich  martyrology.  Probably  no  other 
provincial  town  in  England  has  given  so  many  eminent  names  to  the  literature. 


i73 


THE  EASTERN  COUNTIES. 

science,  and  art  of  our  country,  from  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  author  of  the  Religio 
Medici,  down  to  Harriet  Martineau.  Even  apart  from  these  interesting  associations, 
Norwich  itself  deserves  and  will  well  repay  a  visit.  Surrounded  by  wooded  slopes 
and  pleasant  meadows  and  winding  streams,  its  streets  full  of  quaint  picturesque 
architecture,  and  dominated  by  its  noble  castle  and  cathedral,  few  or  none  of  our 
English  cities  offer  a  more  pleasing  combination  of  urban  and  rural  beauty. 

Norfolk  has  sometimes  been  called  an  uninteresting  county;  and  the  tourist  who 
cares  only  for  mountain  scenery  will  find  but  little  to  his  mind  in  the  vast  undulating 
East  Anglian  plain.  But  there  are  charms  to  many  in  the  green  pastures,  and 
gently  swelling,  wooded  hills,  and  fields  golden  with  harvest.  Fair,  large  parks  also 


CROWLAND  ABBEY  AND  CHURCH. 

clothe  many  a  hillside,  or  stretch  in  their  beauty  along  the  plain,  with  mansions 
quaint  and  ancient,  bearing  historic  names.  Or,  if  these  fail  to  attract  the  holiday 
visitor,  there  is  the  unequaled  sea  coast,  where,  at  the  foot  of  unshapely,  crumbling 
cliffs,  the  reaches  of  smooth  sand  extend,  in  full  face  of  the  glorious  German  Ocean. 
There  is  surely  no  place  in  these  islands  where  the  atmosphere  is  more  invigorating 
and  the  breezy  upland  more  delightful  than  at  Cromer.  The  same  visitors  come 
from  year  to  year  to  this  ‘village  on  the  cliff,’  finding  its  air,  its  scenery,  its  fellow¬ 
ship,  alike  good  for  body,  soul,  and  spirit.  Modern  buildings,  extensions,  and  im¬ 
provements  have  much  impaired  its  fresh,  unsophisticated  charm  ;  and  yet  it  is  a 
place  that  it  will  be  difficult  to  spoil !  The  church  tower  of  flint-work  is  one  of  the 


i74 


THE  EASTERN  COUNTIES. 


finest  specimens  of  that  style  of  architecture  ;  and  the  recently  restored  chancel  has 
completed  the  spacious  and  beautiful  building,  in  which  Christians  of  many  denomi¬ 
nations,  with  every  recurring  season,  find  it  good  to  worship.  Cromer  has  its 
enthusiasts;  we  are  not  ashamed  to  enrol  ourselves  among  them.  Yet  other  places 
on  this  singularly  attractive  coast  have  their  equally  ardent  votaries.  Some  prefer 
Lowestoft;  others  flock  to  Hunstanton,  at  the  extremity  of  the  northwestern  part 
of  the  plain,  and  not  very  far  from  the  beautiful  domain  of  Sandringham,  where  the 
Prince  and  Princess  of  Wales  have  fixed  their  happy  rural  home.  But  to  enumerate 
places  fora  pleasant,  healthful  holiday  would  be  to  write  down  the  names  of  towns  and 
villages  all  along  the  coast,  from  King’s  Lynn  to  Sout'nwold.  Some  indeed  will  tell 
us  that  the  last-mentioned  is  the  most  charming  of  all ;  and  every  family  or  group  of 
friends  has  its  own  favorite  resort.  Southward  still,  again,  there  is  pretty  Felixstowe, 
with  its  miniature  cliffs  and  broad  expanse  of  beach.  Harwich,  at  the  bread  estuary 


SNUFF  TOWER. 


of  the  Orwell  and  the  Stour,  is,  to  most  who  know  it,  little  more  than  a  place  of 
arrival  and  departure,  but  it  is  worth  a  visit  on  its  own  account,  and  there  is 
Dovercourt  close  by  ;  while  Walton-on-the-Naze  and  Clacton-on-Sea  have  the  advan¬ 
tage  of  being  the  very  nearest  places  where  wearied  denizens  of  the  metropolis  may 
inhale  the  inspiriting  airs  of  the  German  Ocean. 

But  there  is  one  way  of  spending  a  long  month  in  the  height  of  summer  which 
those  who  have  tried  it  declare  to  surpass  all  others  in  its  pleasant  emancipation 
from  ordinary  cares.  We  need  hardly  say  to  the  initiated  that  we  mean  an  excur¬ 
sion  on  ‘The  Norfolk  Broads.’  These  are  meres  or  pools,  mostly  shallow,  and  very 
various  in  size  and  shape,  formed  by  the  expansion  of  the  little  rivers  which  find 
their  outlet  to  the  sea  at  Yarmouth — chiefly  the  rivers  Yare  and  Bure,  with  sundry 
smaller  affluents.  These  Broads,  lying  as  they  do  in  the  level  country,  are  sur¬ 
rounded  by  sedges  and  bulrushes,  which  shelter  innumerable  wild  fowl — some  rarely 


.NORWICH,  FROM  THE  MEADOWS,. 


THE  EASTERN  COUNTIES. 


known  elsewhere  in  Britain,  now  that,  as  we  have  seen,  they  have  disappeared  from 
the  Fens, — the  heron,  bittern,  kingfisher,  with  snipe,  mallard,  and  many  more.  All 
kinds  of  aquatic  plants  may  also  be  found  here,  ready  to  the  botanist’s  hand.  By 
the  expert  fisherman  ‘  pike  of  a  score  pounds’  weight  may  be  captured,  and  lordly 
perch  that  will  give  a  good  hour’s  play.  Bream,  roach,  and  eels  literally  swarm  the 
waters,  whilst  for  size  they  can  hardly  be  equaled  anywhere  else  in  England.  In 
this  district  it  is  rare  indeed  to  hear  anglers  speak  otherwise  of  their  finny  captures 
than  by  the  stone.’ 1 

Villages  and  hamlets  are  dotted  over  this  sequestered  lake  region  ;  and  the  un¬ 
sophisticated  inhabitants  have  hardly  yet  become  used  to  the  incursion  of  strangers. 
But  there  are  roomy,  comfortable  boats  to  be  had,  and  navigation  is  easy  over  the 
surface  of  the  meres,  with  many  a  connecting  river  channel.  People  whom  we  know 
of,  have  found  in  these  boats  a  pleasant  home-life  for  week  after  week  of  bright 
summer  days,  sleeping  by  night  in  the  little  cabins,  and  by  day  passing  leisurely 


from  place  to  place,  with  excursions  to  neighboring  hamlets  or  farm-houses  for  the 
necessary  provisions,  and  now  and  then  in  stress  of  weather  seeking  shelter  in  some 
primitive  rustic  little  inn.  It  is  no  wonder  that  a  visit  to  the  Norfolk  Broads  forms 
an  episode  to  be  remembered  in  many  happy  lives. 

The  readers  of  David  Copperficld  will  remember  Dickens’s  description  of  Yar¬ 
mouth  :  ‘As  we  drew  a  little  nearer,  and  saw  the  whole  adjacent  prospect  lying  in  a 
straight  line  under  the  sky,  I  hinted  to  Peggotty  that  a  mound  or  so  might  have 
improved  it ;  and  also  that  if  the  land  had  been  a  little  more  separated  from  the  sea, 
and  that  the  town  and  the  tide  had  not  been  quite  so  mixed  up  like  toast  and  water, 
it  would  have  been  nicer.  But  Peggotty  said  with  greater  emphasis  than  usual,  that 
we  must  take  things  as  we  found  them  ;  and  that  for  her  part  she  was  proud  to  call 
herself  a  Yarmouth  Bloater.’  The  town  is  a  curious  combination  of  English  bustle 


ETHELBERT  GATE,  NORWICH. 


YARMOUTH  TOLLHOUSE.  AND  ENTRANCE  TO  THE  OLD  GAOL. 


*  St.  Paul's  Magazine ,  September,  1868. 


177 


THE  EASTERN  COUNTIES. 


and  Dutch  quaintness.  Its  quay  reminds  the  traveler  of  the  Boompjes  of  Rotter¬ 
dam  ;  its  ‘  rows,’  only  a  few  feet  wide,  with  a  narrow  riband  of  sky  overhead,  recall 
the  narrow  streets  of  Genoa.  ‘  Great  Yarmouth,’  says  Dickens  again,  *  is  one  vast 
gridiron,  of  which  the  bars  are  represented  by  “  Rows,”  to  the  number  of  one  hun¬ 
dred  and  forty-five.  A  Row  is  a  long,  narrow  lane  or  alley,  quite  straight,  or  as 
nearly  as  may  be,  with  houses  on  each  side  both  of  which  you  can  sometimes  touch 
at  once  with  the  finger-tips  of  each  hand,  by  stretching  out  your  arms  to  their  full 
extent.  Now  and  then  the  houses  overhang,  and  even  join  above  your  head,  con¬ 
verting  the  Row,  so  far,  into  a  sort  of  tunnel  or  tubular  passage.  Many  and  many 
a  picturesque  old  bit  of  domestic  architecture  is  to  be  hunted  up  amongst  the  Rows. 


SANDRINGHAM. 


In  some  Rows  there  is  little  more  than  a  blank 
wall  for  the  double  boundary.  In  others,  the 
houses  retreat  into  tiny  square  courts,  where 
washing  and  clear-starching  are  done,  and  wonder¬ 
ful  nasturtiums  and  scarlet-runners  are  reared 
from  green  boxes,  filled  with  that  scarce  commodity  vegetable  mold.’  At  the 
wharves  of  Yarmouth,  the  vast  fleet  of  herring-boats,  discharging  their  silvery 
‘  harvest  of  the  sea’  at  the  wharves,  offer  a  spectacle  almost  unique  in  the  world  ; 
while  the  broad  sands,  the  three  piers,  and  the  fine  aquarium  render  the  seaside 
resort  as  attractive  as  it  is  practical  and  business-like.  True,  in  certain  directions 
the  signs  of  the  herring-curing  processes  are  only  too  evident,  but  there  are  broad 
open  spaces  where  the  breath  of  the  sea  may  be  enjoyed  in  all  its  freshness  and 
purity,  and  even  where  on  the  most  crowded  holiday  the  lover  of  the  ‘lonely  shore’ 
may  expatiate  to  his  heart’s  delight. 

A  stained  glass  window  in  the  Yarmouth  parish  church  perpetuates  the  earthly 
memory  of  Sarah  Martin,  the  prison  visitor.  She  was  a  poor  dressmaker,  without 
wealth  or  social  position,  earning  with  difficulty  a  scanty  subsistence  by  her  needle, 


178 


THE  EASTERN  COUNTIES. 


yet  doing  a  work  comparable  to  that  of  John  Howard  or  of  Elizabeth  Fry.  For 
four-and-twenty  years  this  true  servant  of  Christ,  in  patient,  unthanked  service, 
•devoted  herself  to  the  care  of  the  prisoners,  winning  many  to  penitence,  and  when 
worn  out  with  her  unremitting  toils,  passing  away  with  words  of  joy  and  praise  upon 
her  lips.  ‘  The  righteous  shall  be  had  in  everlasting  remembrance,’  and  ‘  they  that 
turn  many  to  righteousness  as  the  stars  for  ever  and  ever.’ 


CHURCH  or  ST.  NICHOLAS,  YARMOUTH. 


THE  BLACK  COUNTRY  AND  DUDLEY  CASTLE. 


‘  O’er  the  forge’s  heat  and  ashes,  o’er  the  engine’s  iron  head — 

Where  the  rapid  shuttle  flashes,  and  the  spindle  whirls  its  thread — 
’Mid  the  dust,  and  speed,  and  clamor,  of  the  loom-shed  and  the  mill  ; 
’Midst  the  clink  of  wheel  and  hammer,  great  results  are  growing  still. 
There  is  labor,  lowly  tending  each  requirement  of  the  hour  ; 

There  is  genius,  still  extending  science  and  its  world  of  power.’ 

Charles  Swain. 


KIRKSTALL  ABBEY. 


ROUND  ABOUT  SOME  INDUSTRIAL  CENTERS. 


IT  is  not  to  the  manufacturing  districts  of  England  that  the  traveler  in  search  of 
the  picturesque  would  most  naturally  repair.  To  him  they  are  often  a  region  of 
tall  chimneys  and  squalid-looking  habitations,  with  a  canopy  of  smoke  above  and 
black  refuse  of  coal  and  iron  on  the  banks  of  polluted  rivers  below.  Something  of 
this  impression  is  due  to  the  economy  of  railway  companies,  which  for  the  most  part 
have  chosen  to  enter  great  towns  by  their  least  attractive  suburbs,  where  land  is 
cheapest.  Hence,  it  is  not  from  the  carriage-windows  of  the  train  that  Leeds  or 
Sheffield,  Wolverhampton,  Birmingham,  or  Manchester  should  be  judged.  The 
traveler  who  will  alight  and  explore  may  find  a  wealth  of  natural  beauty  which 
would  astonish  him. 

Nowhere,  perhaps,  is  the  contrast — due  chiefly,  no  doubt,  to  geological  struc¬ 
ture — more  apparent  than  on  the  edge  of  the  ‘  Black  Country  ’  in  Staffordshire. 
From  Dudley  Castle  the  views  are  more  curiously  contrasted  than  in  almost  any 
other  part  of  England.  By  night  the  whole  country  is  lighted  up  to  the  north,  east, 
and  south  by  the  flames  from  the  furnaces  which  cover  the  country  for  many  miles.- 
By  day  the  din  of  hammers  and  the  clank  of  wheels,  the  roar  of  traffic  and  the 
shriek  of  the  steam-whistles  surge  up,  through  the  pall  of  smoke,  upon  the  ear.  But 

181 


ROUND  ABOUT  SOME  INDUSTRIAL  CENTERS. 


turn  to  the  west,  and,  though  the  traces  of  unresting  labor  are  still  discernible,  they 
soon  give  way  to  a  country  of  richly  diversified  charm  :  glimpses  are  obtained  of  the 
beautiful  valley  of  the  Severn,  the  W rekin  grandly  towers  not  many  miles  away, 
and  the  Malvern  hills  are  dim  and  blue  in  the  distance. 

In  other  manufacturing  centers,  if  the  contrast  is  not  so  marked,  yet  there  is  a 
similar  accessibility  to  many  a  sequestered  and  lovely  scene.  The  nearness  of  the 
wildest  and  grandest  Derbyshire  scenery  to  busy,  unromantic  Manchester  has  been 
pointed  out  in  a  previous  chapter;  and  the  neighborhood  of  the  great  Yorkshire 
centers  of  industry  is  full  of  picturesque  beauty.  A  little  way  out  of  Leeds,  for 
instance,  where  the  Liverpool  Canal  passes  over  an  embankment  near  the  river 
Aire,  may  be  found  the  scene  of  one  of  Turner’s  most  charming  sketches;  and, 
although  the  locality  bears  evident  marks  of  the  great  industrial  invasion,  much  of 
the  beauty  still  remains.  In  the  same  valley,  not  far  off,  are  the  stately  ruins  of 
Kirkstall  Abbey,  long  apparently  left  to  slow  decay,  and  much  impaired  in  pictur- 


THE  WHARFE. 


esqueness  during  the  last  forty  years,  but  now  happily  secured  to  Leeds  by  art. 
act  of  individual  munificence,  with  proper  arrangements  for  preserving  what  remains 
of  the  structure.  The  broad  reach  of  river  that  incloses  it,  and  the  green  meadows 
on  the  bank,  with  the  low  wooded  heights  on  either  side  of  the  valley,  suggest  the 
memories  of  a  day  when  the  surroundings  of  the  old  ecclesiastical  building  were  such 
as  the  monks  most  dearly  loved  ;  while  Esholt  Hall,  some  few  miles  higher  up  the 
river,  at  the  extremity  of  a  noble  avenue  of  elm-trees,  was,  in  its  time,  a  nunnery  on 
low-lying  ground,  circled  by  an  amphitheater  of  hills,  in  a  vale  even  now  rich  and 
beautiful,  and  one  which  must  have  seemed  in  the  olden  time  the  abode  of  tran¬ 
quillity  and  peace. 

In  another  direction  from  Leeds,  Ilkley  may  be  visited,  famed  for  its  hydro¬ 
pathic  establishments,  but  yet  more  for  its  fine  open  moorland,  where  the  brain- 
wearied  worker  may  range  at  will.  Then,  a  little  way  beyond  Ilkley,  lie  the  fair 
woods  and  noble  heights  encircling  Bolton  Abbey,  where  the  Wharfe  comes  down* 

1S2 


ROUND  ABOUT  SOME  INDUSTRIAL  CENTERS. 


as  yet  unpolluted,  from  the  moorland  beyond  ;  while  the  form  of  the  White  Doe  of 
Rylstone,  or  the  memory  of  the  ill-fated  heir  of  Egremont,  seems  yet  to  haunt  the 
scene. 

A  little  farther  again,  the  astonished  traveler  comes  upon  a  Clapham  Junction , 
but  it  is  amid  the  silence  of  the  hills!  Ingleborough  with  its  marvelous  caves,  too 
little  known,  and  its  companion  heights,  Pen-y-gant  and  Whernside,  rise  from  the 
valley:  while  every  path  is  full  of  beauty,  especially  that  which  leads  into  the  heart 
of  Craven,  where  bold  limestone  scars,  wooded  glens,  and  upland  moors,  with  one 


A  YORKSHIRE  DALE. 


deep,  lonely  tarn,  dear  alike  to  dreamers  and  to  anglers,  yield  a  succession  of 
pictures,  of  which  not  the  least  among  their  many  charms  is  their  easy  accessibility 
from  the  neighborhood  of  clanking  mills  and  inky  streams.  For  Ilkley,  Bolton, 
Harrogate,  Craven,  Clapham  may  all  be  reached  by  the  busy  worker  of  Leeds  or 
Bradford,  and  much  of  their  beauty  enjoyed,  in  the  leisure  of  a  summer  Saturday 
afternoon  or  on  a  ‘  Bank  Holiday.’ 

The  topic  is  almost  inexhaustible  ;  and  the  selection  of  places  to  be  visited  in 
reasonable  time,  from  these  ‘  centers  of  industry,’ would  be  invidious  to  make.  A 
little  way  beyond  Leeds,  as  every  one  knows,  lies  Harrogate,  the  high  table-land 

1S3 


RO  UND  ABO  UT  SOME  IND  USTR/AL  CENTERS. 


whose  medicinal  waters  have  for  long  generations  attached  to  the  place  the  fame  of 
a  true  ‘city  of  Hygeia,’  while  we  ourselves  would  give  the  chief  credit  to  the  invigo¬ 
rating,  stimulating  air,  and  to  the  almost  inexhaustible  interest  of  the  neighbor¬ 
hood,  occupying  the  mind  of  the  visitor  with  a  round  of  healthful  delights.  The 
visit  to  Studley  Park  and  Fountains  Abbey  will  probably  rank  among  the  chief  of 
these.  Again,  as  in  the  cases  of  Kirkstall  and  Bolton,  reverting  to  the  past,  we 
admire  the  taste  and  wisdom  shown  by  the  cowled  brotherhoods  in  mediaeval  times, 
in  their  choice  of  dwelling-places.  Something,  indeed,  of  the  beauty  which  we  now 
see  may  have  been  the  result  of  their  assiduous  culture.  It  was  part  of  their  work 
to  ‘make  the  wilderness  to  smile’;  but  they  had  a  rare  faculty  for  lighting  upon 


FOUNTAINS  ABBEY. 


scenes  which,  if  not  already  beautiful,  possessed  an  evident  capability  for  becoming 
so.  At  Fountains  both  nature  and  art  seem  to  vie  with  each  other;  and  in  the 
modern  arrangement  of  the  domain,  the  art  may  occasionally  be  the  more  apparent. 
The  artistic  yields  to  the  artificial ;  the  ruins  have  been  maintained  at  the  due  stage 
of  picturesqueness  by  careful  oversight  and  repair ;  and  the  carefully  prepared 
‘  surprise,’  which  awaits  the  visitor  at  one  stage  of  his  progress  through  the 
grounds,  is  too  theatrical  to  permit  even  one  of  the  fairest  of  pictures  to  have  its 
full  effect.  But,  with  every  deduction,  this  old  Cistercian  abbey  is  one  of  the  most 
beautiful,  as  it  is  one  of  the  most  complete  mediaeval  monastic  buildings  in 
England.  The  tower,  unlike  that  of  its  sister  abbey  at  Kirkstall,  is  little  impaired 
by  the  ravages  of  time,  the  plan  of  the  edifice  is  easy  to  be  traced  ;  and  the  light 

184 


ROUND  ABOUT  SOME  INDUSTRIAL  CENTERS. 


pillars  and  lofty  arches  of  the  Ladye  Chapel  give  to  the  whole  a  finishing  touch 
of  stateliness  and  grace.  Then  how  pleasant  to  wander  through  the  noble  avenues 
of  Studley,  to  gaze  upwards  to  the  gigantic  spruce  firs,  or  to  climb  the  mound  where 
linger  the  decaying  forms  of  the  rugged  yew-trees — remnants,  it  is  said,  of  the 
‘seven  sisters’  that  spread  their  shade  over  the  founders  of  the  abbey,  more  than  six 
hundred  years  ago. 

Still  pursuing  our  way  northwards,  we  reach  the  country  of  the  Yorkshire  Dales, 
where  the  Swale,  passing  by  Richmond,  the  Tees,  on  the  edge  of  Durham,  and 
many  smaller  streams,  descend  from  the  eastern  slope  of  the  Westmoreland  moors. 
Both  abound  in  wild  and  charming  scenery  :  the  Upper  Teesdale  especially  is  singu¬ 
larly  impressive.  The  river  runs  in  its  deep  rocky  bed  through  Alpine-looking 
•green  meadows,  with  clean  whitewashed  cottages  scattered  here  and  there.  Trees 
there  are  few  or  none,  except  a  small  kind  of  fir ;  and  in  place  of  hedges,  low  stone 


WYCLIFFE  CHURCH. 


walls  mark  the  boundaries  of  the  fields.  About  five  or  six  miles  below  its  source, 
the  Tees  forms  the  striking  waterfall  ‘  High  Force,’  tumbling  over  a  black  basaltic 
precipice,  fifty  feet  high  ;  while  yet  higher  up  the  stream,  where  it  issues  in  ‘  Caldron 
Snout’  from  a  gloomy  tarn  on  the  edge  of  the  Westmoreland  moors,  descending  for 
some  two  hundred  feet  over  a  steep,  irregular  staircase,  so  to  speak,  of  basalt,  the 
weird  wildness  of  the  scene  in  the  midst  of  its  hilly  amphitheatre  approaches  sub¬ 
limity.  A  little  lower  down,  the  traveler  reaches  the  charming  hamlet  of  Wycliffe 
(the  y  locally  pronounced  long,  as  ‘Wye’),  the  birthplace,  probably,  of  the  great 
reformer,  a  fine  portrait  of  whom  may  be  seen  at  the  parsonage.  A  walk  by  Rokeby 
Woods,  famous  from  the  descriptions  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  then  leads  to  Barnard 
Castle,  whence  the  train  may  be  taken  to  Darlington. 

Teesdale  has  two  sets  of  associations,  and  the  same  stream  whose  rocks  and 
dales  are  so  romantic  in  its  earlier  course,  becomes  below  Darlington  a  broad  arid 
inky  flood,  and  so  passes  by  Stockton  and  Middlesbrough  to  the  sea,  where  Redcar 

185 


ROUND  ABOUT  SOME  INDUSTRIAL  CENTERS, 


and  Saltburn  attract  us — but  we  must  pass  northward  along  the  coast,  from  town  to 
town,  each  busier,  blacker  than  the  last,  with  glimpses  of  rich  beauty  between.  The 
city  of  Durham,  as  seen  from  the  rail,  presents  one  of  the  noblest  views  of  rock  and 
river,  cathedral,  castle,  and  city,  on  which  the  traveler’s  eye  has  ever  rested.  This 
river  is  the  Wear;  then  the  Tyne  is  reached,  and  Newcastle,  the  ‘capital  of  the 

north,’  is  entered  over  its  splendid 
High-Level  Bridge. 

But  our  chief  object  in  visit¬ 
ing  these  great  centers  of  industry 
is  to  explore  their  neighborhoods. 
Few  towns  in  England  are  better 
worth  a  prolonged  visit  than  New¬ 
castle-upon-Tyne  ;  but  its  attrac¬ 
tion  to  us  now  is,  that  we  can,  at 


so  short  a  distance 
from  its  busy 
streets,  place  our¬ 
selves  amid  rural 
scenes  of  surpass¬ 
ing  interest,  as  well 
on  their  own  account  as  for  their 
historical  associations.  First 
and  foremost,  of  course,  there  is 
the  Roman  Wall,  with  its  long 
line  of  remains,  still  distinct,  and 
often  imposing  ;  and  so  varied 
from  place  to  place,  while  the  1N  THE  cheviot  hills. 

scenery  that  surrounds  them  is 

so  striking,  that  we  can  imagine  no  better  route  for  a  pedestrian  excursion  than 
the  way  from  Denton  Hall  to  Thirlwall  Castle — about  thirty-four  miles ;  or,  if 
the  tourist  wishes  to  see  the  whole,  let  him  put  Dr.  Bruce’s  Condensed  Guide 
and  an  Ordnance  map  into  his  knapsack,  devote  a  week  to  the  exploration,  and 
proceed  by  leisurely  stages  from  Wallsend  on  the  Tyne,  to  Bowness  on  the  Solway, 


ROUND  ABOUT  SOME  INDUSTRIAL  CENTERS. 


a  distance  of  seventy-three  miles  and  a  half.  We  venture  to  say  that  the  week 
will  ever  after  stand  out  in  memory,  not  only  for  its  health-giving  exercise  in  the 
atmosphere  of  the  moorlands,  but  for  the  singularly  interesting  glimpses  into  the 
past  opened  up  at  every  stage.  Few  persons,  indeed,  who  have  not  visited  the  scene, 
have  any  notion  of  the  variety  and  value  of  the  remains  which  have  withstood  the 
wear  and  tear  of  sixteen  centuries,  during  a  great  part  of  which  period  the  wall  was 
used  as  a  quarry  by  the  dwellers  in  the  district.  In  many  places  the  traveler, 
especially  if  aided  by  some  competent  guide,  may  discern  the  whole  outline  of  the 


ROMAN  WALL. 

structure.  ‘  It  consisted  of  seven  parts,  viz.,  the  Roman  Wall  proper,  comprising 
(i)  a  ditch  on  the  extreme  northern  side  ;  (2)  a  stone  wall  ;  (3)  a  space  more  or  less 
wide  (varying  from  thirty  feet  to  half  a  mile),  along  the  middle  of  which  ran  the 
military  road  ;  then  the  vallum,  or  earthwork,  consisting  of  (4)  a  mound,  or  rampart. 


3 


SECTION  OF  ROMAN  WALL. 


the  largest  of  three  ;  (5)  a  second  ditch  ;  (6)  another  mound,  the  smallest ;  and  (7) 
yet  another  mound.  The  preceding  section  exhibits  all  in  one  view.  Nor  is  this 
all  ;  at  every  three  or  *four  miles  we  have  fortified  camps  of  several  acres  each,  at 
every  mile  a  castle,  and  between  the  castles  watch-towers.  Moreover,  there  are 
roads  and  bridges,  traces  of  villas,  gardens,  and  burial-places,  making  almost  every 
inch  from  sea  to  sea  classic  ground.  In  many  places  all  the  lines  sweep  on  together, 
parts  in  wondrous  preservation  ;  while  many  of  the  recent  excavations  present  struc¬ 
tures  several  feet  high,  giving  one  the  idea  of  works  in  progress,  so  fresh  that  we  are 
tempted  to  think  of  the  builders  as  away  but  for  an  hour,  perhaps  to  the  noon-day 
meal.  To  traverse  the  line  of  the  wall  is  to  pass  along  one  continuous  platform, 
whence  the  visitor  revels  in  a  succession  of  glorious  panoramas.' 

1S7 


ROUND  ABOUT  SOME  INDUSTRIAL  CENTERS. 

Returning  to  the  busy  east  coast,  very  charming  is  the  transition  from  the  Tyne 
to  the  Coquet,  loveliest  of  Northumbrian  streams,  as  its  flows  down  from  Thirlmoor 
on  the  verge  of  the  Cheviots,  at  the  foot  of  heathery  hills  and  through  richly  wooded 
vales,  to  Rothbury.  Thence  the  Coquet  descends  in  many  a  winding  by  scenes  of 
the  richest  sylvan  loveliness  to  Warkworth,  renowned  for  its  hermitage,  which  is  still, 
as  the  old  Percy  ballad  describes  it,  ‘  deep  hewn  within  a  craggy  cliff,  and  overhung 
with  wood.’  And  so  we  reach  the  sea,  where  Coquet  Island,  with  its  lighthouse, 
lies  amid  the  gleaming  waters,  scarcely  suggesting,  as  we  gaze  upon  it  in  the  fair 


storm 

sometimes  there  rages,  or  how 
those  dark  rocks  are  chafed  by 
the  angry  billows  ! 

But  for  the  full  spiendor  of  cliff  and  ocean  scenery  we  journey  still  a  little 
northward,  and  come  to  Dunstanborough  Castle. 

From  Dunstanborough  Castle  we  pursue  our  way  northwards  at  least  as  far  as 
Bamborough  Castle,  not  so  much  for  the  sake  of  admiring  its  noble  ramparts  and 
towers — once  a  fortress,  now  a  temple  of  charity — or  of  gazing  again  upon  the 
glories  of  cliff  and  sea,  as  of  looking  out  across  the  waters  to  those  rocky  isles  which, 
almost  in  our  own  time,  have  witnessed  one  of  those  deeds  of  unconscious  heroism 
which  do  honor  to  our  nature.  For  it  was  from  one  of  those  sea-beaten  crags 
that,  on  the  5th  of  September,  1838,  Grace  Darling  set  forth  upon  her  errand  of 
mercy  amid  the  raging  waters,  to  rescue  the  survivors  of  the  shipwrecked  Forfar¬ 
shire.  ‘  Her  musical  name,’  it  has  been  said,  ‘  is  the  burden  of  a  beautitui  stor)  o. 


188 


ROUND  ABOUT  SOME  INDUSTRIAL  CENTERS. 


DUNSTANBOROUGH  CASTLE,  NORTHUMBERLAND. 

that  love  of  man  which  is  the  love  of  Christ  translated  into  human  language  and 
deeds.  Let  us  conclude  these  random  rovings  by  a  visit  to  her  monument  in  Barn- 
borough  churchyard.  Her  figure  lies  as  it  were  in  slumber,  an  oar  upon  her  shoul¬ 
der,  beneath  a  Gothic  canopy,  within  sight  and  hearing  of  the  waves. 


i8g 


GRACE  DARLING’S  TOMB. 


F  those  who  have  voiced  the  praises  of  the  Isle  of  Wight  none 
have  spoken  more  forcibly  than  Sir  Walter  Scott,  who  some¬ 
where  speaks  of  it  as  a  “  beautiful  island,  which  he  who  once 
sees  never  lorgets,  through  whatever  part  of  the  wide  world  his 
future  path  may  lead  him.”  Whether  this  description  be  over¬ 
colored  or  no,  it  is  certain  that  there  is  hardly  any  spot  of  Eng¬ 
lish  ground  so  well  adapted  for  a  ramble  of  three  or  four  days. 
There  cannot  be  a  more  charming  excursion  than  a  cruise  round  ‘  the  Island,  as 
inhabitants  of  the  neighboring  counties  fondly  call  it,  when  the  atmosphere  is  clear,  and 
light  breezes  stir  the  water,  without  raising  it  to  roughness.  The  chines,  or  ravines  in 
the  cliff,  diversify  the  outline  ;  and  so  we  reach  the  Undercliff,  that  line  of  coast  whose 
perfect  protection  from  the  winter’s  cold,  with  the  fresh  purity  of  the  sea-breeze, 
renders  it  almost  unique  as  a  residence  for  the  consumptive  ;  Niton  at  one  extremity, 
and  Ventnor  and  Bonchurch  at  the  other,  with  the  five  miles  between,  offering 
a  succession  of  views  unsurpassed  in  beauty.  “The  beautiful  places,  writes  Lord 
Jeffrey,  “are  either  where  the  cliffs  sink  deep  into  bays  and  valleys,  opening  like 
a  theater  to  the  sun  and  the  sea,  or  where  there  has  been  a  terrace  of  low  land  formed 
at  their  feet,  which  stretches  under  the  shelter  of  that  enormous  wall  like  a  rich  garden 
plot,  all  roughened  over  with  masses  of  rock  fallen  in  distant  ages,  and  overshadowed 


THE  ISLE  OF  WIGHT. 


with  thickets  of  myrtle  and  rose  and  geranium,  which  all  grow  wild  here  in  great  luxu¬ 
riance  and  profusion.” 

The  Needle  Rocks  are  five  in  number,  but  only  three  are  conspicuously  visible. 
Originally,  they  formed  a  portion  of  the  western  point  of  the  island,  and  their  present 
isolated  condition  is  owing  to  the  decomposition  and  wearing  away  of  the  rock  in  the 
direction  of  the  joints  or  fissures  with  which  the  strata  are  traversed.  There  was  for¬ 
merly  another  rock — Lot's  Wife,  the  sailors  called  it — which  stood  out  alone,  rising 
from  the  waves,  like  a  spire,  to  the  height  of  120  feet.  It  is  said  to  have  given  its 
name  to  the  group.  It  fell  in  1764. 


scratchell’s  bay. 


Nothing  can  be  more  interesting,  particularly  to  those  who  take  pleasure  in  aquatic 
excursions,  than  to  sail  between  and  around  the  Needles.  The  wonderfully-colored 
cliffs  of  Alum  Bay;  the  lofty  and  towering  chalk  precipices  of  Scratchell’s  Bay,  of  the 
most  dazzling  whiteness  and  the  most  elegant  forms  ;  the  magnitude  and  singularity  of 
the  spiry,  insulated  masses,  which  seem  at  every  instant  to  be  shifting  their  situations, 
and  give  a  mazy  perplexity  to  the  place  ;  the  screaming  noise  of  the  aquatic  birds,  the 
agitation  of  the  sea,  and  the  rapidity  of  the  tide,  occasioning  not  unfrequently  a  slight 

degree  of  danger ; — all  these  circumstances 
combine  to  raise  in  the  mind  unusual  emotions, 
and  to  give  to  the  scene  a  character  highly  sin¬ 
gular,  &nd  even  romantic. 

Carisbrooke  Castle. 

The  glory  and  boast  of  Carisbrooke  is  the 
historic'  pile,  so  grand  even  in  its  very  decay, 
which,  with  its  crown  of  towers,  circles  the 
artificial  mound  rising  with  such  abruptness 
out  of  the  fertile  valley,  239  feet  above  the  sea* 
Between  this  mound,  and  the  hill  up  whose 
ascent  straggles  the  long  street  of  Carisbrooke  village,  winds  a  branch  of  the  Medina, — 
noted  for  the  excellence  of  its  shining  waters, — and  spreads  a  pleasant  sweep  of  grassy 


THE  ISLE  OF  WIGHT. 


plain.  Along  the  horizon — southward  and  westward — rolls  a  range  of  lofty  downs.  At 
the  foot  of  the  hill  clusters  the  town  of  Newport,  with  its  church  spires  and  tiled  roofs 
presenting  a  curious  picture  ;  in  the  mid-distance  rise  the  masts  of  Cowes  harbor  ;  and 
still  farther  off,  the  blue  hills  of  Hampshire  seem  to  melt  into  azure  vapor.  The  massive 
tower  of  Carisbrooke  Church,  and  the  green  masses  of  Parkhurst  Forest,  relieve  the., 
view  in  another  direction.  And  so — 


WHIPPINGHAH  CHURCH. 

“The  pastoral  slopes  in  noonday  quiet  sleep, — 

Green  lanes  run  down  into  the  valley  green, 

Or  climb,  ’mid  gleamy  brooks,  a  bosky  steep, — 

Towers  over  hill  and  dale  the  castle’s  haughty  keep  !” 

Edmund  Peel. 

In  fact,  Carisbrooke,  from  “  the  bravery”  of  its  position,  and  the  extent  of  its  ruins, 
as  well  as  its  historical  associations,  cannot  fail  to  impress  the  thoughtful  observer  with 
peculiar  force. 

Whippingham  is  a  parish  and  village  in  the  East  Medina  liberty,  evidently  so  named 
from  its  original  Saxon  holders,  the  Wepingas’  ham ,  or  home.  Called  Wipingeham  in 
Domesday  Book. 

192 


THE  ISLE  OF  WIGHT. 


Wiiippingham  Church  stands  on  a  gentle  eminence  just  above  the  river,  its  tower 
forming  a  prominent  landmark  to  all  the  country-side.  Near  it  is  the-  New  Cemetery, 
which  has  been  arranged  with  much  taste  ;  and  the  Victoria  and  Albert  Almshouses. 


SHANKLIN  CHINE. 


Shanklin,  one  of  the  leafiest  of  leafy  villages,  if  now,  indeed,  it  may  not  aspire  to 
t-he  denomination  and  prerogatives  of  a  town. — whose  “romantic  glades  ”  attracted 
the  attention  of  Tom  Ingoldsby  ;  whose  beautiful  scenery  has  been  the  admiration  of 
artist  and  poet  ;  whose  dells  are  prodigal  of  blossoms  ;  whose  hills  look  out  upon  “  the 
sounding  sea,” — is  about  two  miles  from  Sandown,  four  from  Ventnor,  eight  and  a 
half  from  Ryde,  and  occupies  a  table-land  three  hundred  feet  above  the  sea,  at  the 
base  of  the  eastern  extremity  of  the  great  chalk  range  of  downs  which  forms  “  the 
backbone  of  the  island.  The  entrance  into  Shanklin  from  Ventnor  is  one  of  the 
fairest  scenes  in  this  fair  country-side.  The  beach  is  very  fine,  and  the  views  seaward 
are  endless  in  variety  and  interest,  so  that  the  tourist,  however  hurried,  will  do  well  to 
spend  at  least  a  day  or  two  in  the  neighborhood,  and  examine  its  chief  attractions. 

The  village  of  Arreton  lies  in  a  rich  and  fruitful  valley,  adorned  with  corn-fields  and 

pastures,  through  which  a  small  river  winds  in  a  variety  of  directions,  at  the  foot  of  a 

lofty  down  ;  while  a  fine  range  of  opposite  hills,  covered  with  grazing  flocks,  terminates 

with  a  bold  sweep  into  the  ocean,  whose  blue  waves  appear  at  a  distance  beyond.  It 

consists  of  a  long  straggling  street  of  scattered  farms  and  cottages,  with  a  small,  neat 

193 


THE  ISLE  OF  WIGHT. 


public-house  ;  the  church  and  parsonage  house  are  very  pleasantly  situated  on  the  slope 
of  a  hill,  at  a  slight  distance  from  the  main  road. 

Brading  is  an  old  corporate  town,  and  still 
retains  its  municipal  government  by  a  senior 
and  junior  bailiff,  a  recorder,  and  thirteen  jurists. 
Near  the  church  is  the  Town  Hall,  recently 
rebuilt;  inside  it  are  preserved  the  ancient 
stocks  and  whipping-post.  Some  of  the  old 
houses — and  they  are  very  old,  with  timber 
joists  and  quaint  diamonded  casements — still 
show  the  iron  rings  used  on  festival  days  to 
support  the  tapestry  decorations.  In  a  lane, 
arreton  church.  to  the  right,  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  stands 

the  rustic  dwelling  of  Legh  Richmond’s 
“  Young  Cottager,”  whose  modest  grave  is  at  the  south-east  angle  of  the  old  church¬ 
yard. 


BRADING  CHURCH. 

The  church  is  a  famous  structure,  ancient,  spacious,  and  stately,  principally  ofTtan- 
sition-Norman  date.  Its  interior  has  recently  been  restored  with  great  care. 


MENAI  TUBULAR  AND  SUSPENSION  BRIDGES. 


SNOWDONIA  AND  WALES 


HE  Menai  Suspension  Bridge  is  approached  from  Bangor  by  an  excellent  road, 


affording  fine  views  of  the  surrounding  scenery.  The  distance  from  the  city  to  the 
bridge  is  two  and  a  half  miles.  The  Menai  Strait,  which  the  bridge  crosses,  is  a 
channel  separating  the  island  of  Anglesey  from  the  county  of  Carnarvon. 

The  principles  of  its  construction,  and  even  the  details  of  its  execution, are  so  generally 
known,  that  there  is  no  occasion  for  more  lengthened  description. 

The  Britannia  Tubular  Bridge  and  its  neighbor  at  Conway  are  stupendous  works, 
by  means  of  which  the  Chester  and  Holyhead  Railway  becomes  an  unbroken  line  to  its 
terminus  at  the  harbor  of  Holyhead. 

The  four  mountains  of  Great  Britain  which  are  most  awe-inspiring  to  the  American 
traveler  are  Snowdon,  Cader-Idris,  Helvellyn,  and  Ben  Nevis.  Each  has  its  own  attri¬ 
butes,  and  though  in  each  the  most  striking  feature  is  that  of  dark  precipice,  this  is  so 
differently  exhibited  in  each,  that  if  any  one  familiar  with  them  all  could  see  a  single 
precipice  apart  from  its  accessories,  he  might  tell  to  which  mountain  it  belonged.  Of 
these  mountains  Snowdon  forms  beyond  comparison  the  noblest  aggregate,  because, 
except  on  the  side  opposite  Carnarvon,  its  upper  portion  is  all  mighty  frame-work,  a 
top  uplifted  on  vast  buttresses,  disdaining  the  round  lumpish  earth,  spreading  out 
skeleton  arms  towards  heaven,  and  embracing  on  each  side  huge  hollows,  made  more 
awful  by  the  red  tints  of  the  copper-ore  which  deepens  among  its  shadows,  and  gleams 
through  the  scanty  herbage  of  its  loveliest  pathways. 

The  Pass  of  Aberglaslyx  extends  from  a  little  below  Beddgeiert  to  the  bridge 
called  Pont  Aberglaslyn,  a  mile  and  a  half  from  the  village,  and  is  certainly  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  and  romantic  scenes  in  North  Wales.  The  stream,  which  here  forms 
the  boundary  between  the  counties  of  Carnarvon  and  Merioneth,  rapidly  descends 
over  a  rocky  channel,  the  mountains  rising  abruptly  from  its  banks,  and  forming 
nearly  perpendicular  walls  to  the  height  of  700  feet.  The  road,  just  wide  enough  for 


95 


SNOWDONIA  AND  WALES. 


SNOWDON. 

between  them.  It  is  a  single  arch,  stretching  from  rock  to  rock,  at  no  very  great 
elevation  above  the  river  ;  whose  waters,  confined  within  a  narrow  channel,  here  make 
a  boisterous  descent,  and  dash  impetuously  against  the  unyielding  masses  that  lie  in 
wild  confusion  in  their  course.  In  the  structure  itself  there  is  nothing  extraordinary 
but  its  position  is  peculiarly  striking,  and  every  part  of  the  surrounding  scenery  is  of 
surpassing  grandeur. 

Bettws-y-Coed,  i.e,  the  Chapel  or  the  Station  in  the  Wood,  is  a  hamlet,  delightfully 
situated,  and  forming  a  romantic  sylvan  retreat  at  the  junction  of  the  counties  of  Den¬ 
bigh  and  Carnarvon,  and  near  to  the  confluence  of  the  rivers  Llugwy  and  Conway 

196 


two  carriages,  pursues  the  windings  of  the  river,  upon  its  western  side,  overkung  by 
dark  and  craggy  rocks,  whose  opposing  and  precipitous  fronts  indicate,  by  the  exact 
correspondence  of  their  strata,  that  they  have  been  rent  asunder  by  sudden  and  violent 
convulsion.  The  terrific  grandeur  of  the  scene  powerfully  arrests  and  excites  the  imag¬ 
ination.  In  the  midst  of  this  sublime  pass  a  rock  is  pointed  out  which  bears  the  name 
of  the  Chair  of  Rhys  Goch  O'ryri ,  the  celebrated  mountain  bard,  contemporary  with 
Owen  Glyndwr. 

Pont  Aberglaslyn  is  the  bridge  which  crosses  the  stream,  one  and  a  half  miles, 
from  Beddgelert,  connecting  the  two  counties,  and  forming  the  principal  communication. 


PONT  ABERGLASLYN. 


197 


SNOWDONIA  AND  WALES. 


There  is  much  of  mingled  beauty  and 
grandeur  in  the  surrounding  scenery.  The 
Llugwy  is  here  crossed  by  Pont-y- Pair, 
an  old  stone  bridge,  erected  in  the  1 5th 
century.  It  has  four  arches  of  different  sizes,  covered  with  ivy,  beneath  which  the 
foaming  current  rushes  with  the  fury  of  a  cataract,  and  then,  making  a  sudden  bend, 
quietly  resigns  its  waters  into  the  channel  of  the  Conway.  The  old  church  contains  an 
effigy  of  Gryffydd ,  son  of  David  Goch,  of  the  royal  lineage  of  Wales.  It  is  a  recum¬ 
bent  figure  in  armor,  circa  1380  a.d.,  an  interesting  example  of  military  costume. 

Bettws-y-Coed  has  long  been  a  favorite  haunt  of  the  angler  and  artist.  The  views 
present  features  of  quiet  loveliness  and  grandeur,  in  which  river,  cataract,  woodland, 
and  mountain  are  commingled  alternately.  Rhayadr-y-Wennol,  the  Falls  of  the  Con¬ 
way  and  of  the  Machno  may  be  seen  in  the  course  of  a  single  morning’s  excursion.  The 
road  leads  across  the  Waterloo  Bridge,  a  handsome  iron  structure  which  spans  the 
river  Conway  with  a  single  arch,  and  then,  turning  to  the  right,  ascends  the  side  of  the 
mountain -range,  which,  for  a  considerable  part  of  the  way,  commands  a  view  of  the 
tributary  Lledr.  The  view  up  this  valley  is  one  of  the  sweetest  pictures  on  which 
the  eye  can  rest,  and  no  tourist  should  leave  this  locality  without  seeing  Ffos  Noddyn 
(the  Fairy  Glen)  and  Bandy  Mill.  A  walk  up  the  vale  of  the  Lledr  to  Dolwyddelan 
Castle,  a  distance  of  five  miles,  will  amply  repay  the  tourist,  who  will  hardly  have  seen 
in  the  course  of  his  rambles  a  more  beautiful  little  mountain-river,  a  wilder-looking 
fortress  than  that  of  Dolwyddelan,  or  a  more  glorious  termination  to  his  prospect  than 
Moel  Siabod. 


BETTWS-Y-COED. 


SNOWDONIA  AND  WALES. 


The  road  from  Bettws-y-Coed  to  Capel  Curig  is  carried  through  the  Vale  of  the Llugwy , 
and  is  about  six  miles  in  length.  The  road  follows  the  course  of  the  river,  whose 
banks  are  richly  wooded;  the  magnificent  mountains  of  the  Snowdon  range,  now  full 
in  view,  imparting  grandeur  and  sublimity  to  the  scene. 

When  approaching  the  ancient  fortified  town  of  Conway  or  Aberconway,  its  aspect 
is  so  singularly  grand  and  impressive,  that  strangers  are  apt  to  indulge  expectations 


WATER-FALL  NEAR  CAPEL  CURIG. 

which  the  first  near  view  of  its  poor,  ill-built,  neglected  streets  will  be  likely  to  disap¬ 
point ;  and  the  remark  of  Pennant  may  seem  to  be  verified — “A  more  ragged  town 
within  is  scarcely  to  be  seen,  nor  a  more  beautiful  one  without.”  However,  more 
deliberate  inspection  and  more  intimate  knowledge  may  justify  the  opinion  of  Sir  R.  C. 
Hoare,  who  says  of  this  place — “  I  have  seen  no  town  where  the  military  works  of  art 
are  so  happily  blended  with  the  picturesque  features  of  nature  ;  and  no  spot  which  the 

199 


SNOWDONIA  AND  WALES. 


artist  will  at  first  sight  view  with  greater  rapture,  or  quit  with  greater  reluctance.”  In 
like  manner,  another  competent  judge,  Miss  Costello,  writes — “We  had  heard  much  of 
this  boast  of  North  Wales,  and  on  our  arrival,  far  from  considering  that  too  much  had 
been  said,  I  think  that  no  description,  however  enthusiastic,  can  do  justice  to  one  of  the 
most  romantic  and  interesting  spots  in  Europe.” 

The  town  is  beautifully  situated,  on  a  steep  slope,  on  the  left  bank  of  the  river  Con¬ 
way,  where  it  falls  into  the  ocean,  and  hence  the  name  by  which  the  Welsh  generally 
designate  it,  Aberconway.  It  is  of  a  triangular  form,  somewhat  resembling  the  shape 
of  a  Welsh  harp,  to  which  it  is  commonlv  likened.  It  is  surrounded  by  a  wall,  one  mile 


and  a  quarter  in  length,  and  twelve  feet  thick,  fortified  with  towers  and  battlements. 
These,  together  with  four  gateways,  are  in  a  good  state  of  preservation.  It  presents  a 
rare  example  of  the  Saracenic  or  Moorish  style  of  building,  which  was  introduced  by 
the  Crusaders  on  returning  from  the  east. 

Conway  Castle  was  erected  in  1284  by  Edward  I.  against  Welsh  insurrection,  com¬ 
manding  the  pass  of  Penmaen-mawr,  which  then  formed,  as  it  now  does,  the  road  to 
Snowdon  and  Anglesey.  When  in  its  perfect  state,  this  castle  must  have  been  one  of 

the  most  magnificent  fortresses  of  Britain.  Pennant  says,  “  one  more  beautiful  never 
200 


THE  FAIRIES’  GLEN,  BETTWS-Y-COED. 


SNOWDONIA  AND  WALES. 


arose.”  The  form  was  oblong,  and  it  was  placed  on  the  verge  of  a  precipitous  rock, 
one  side  bounded  by  the  river,  a  second  by  a  creek  filled  at  every  tide,  and  the  remaining 
•two  facing  the  town.  On  the  land  side  was  a  moat,  crossed  by  a  drawbridge. 

The  river  Neath,  in  its  passage  from  the  romantic  region  amidst  the  Brecknock 
hills  in  which  it  has  its  rise,  flows  through  one  of  the  most  picturesque  valleys  in  South 
Wales.  Of  this  valley,  to  which  the  river  gives  name,  the  lower  part  is  in  Glamorgan¬ 
shire, but  the  higher  part,  with  much  of  its  most  beautiful  scenery,  is  in  Brecknockshire. 
During  its  short  course,  the  river  receives  a  number  of  mountain  tributaries,  all  of  which, 
descending  rapidly  through  deep  ravines,  make  falls  of  considerable  elevation,  and  great 
beauty.  From  the  town  of  Neath  there  are  two  roads  up  the  valley,  either  of  which 
may  be  taken  by  persons  on  foot  or  on  horseback  ;  but  carriages  must  take  that  of  the 
north  bank  of  the  river,  through  the  village  of  Cadoxton.  Between  Cadoxton  and 


THE  MOORS  ABOVE  BETTWS-Y-COED. 


Aberdulas  the  scenery  is  diversified,  and  in  some  parts  strikingly  beautiful.  At  the 
latter  place,  near  to  a  mill,  there  is  a  small  cascade  on  the  river  Dulas,  worthy  of 
observation.  The  access  to  it  is  not  easy,  but  assistance  may  be  obtained.  The  road 
crossing  the  Dulas,  continues  near  to  the  river  Neath,  and  passes  the  mansion  and  tin 
works  of  Ynys-y-geryn,  belonging  to  the  family  of  Llewelyn.  At  the  distance  of  six 
miles  from  Neath  is  the  hamlet  of  Abergarwedd,  near  to  which  is  the  picturesque  fall  of 
Melincourt.  It  is  a  cascade  formed  by  the  river  Clydach,  which  is  precipitated  about 
eighty  feet;  and  from  its  elevation,  and  the  peculiar  forms  of  the  rocks,  it  has  a  consid¬ 
erable  decree  of  sfrandeur.  About  two  miles  farther  is  Rheola ,  the  seat  of  Admiral 
Oliver  Jones.  Here  there  is  much  beautiful  scenery,  and  a  glen  behind  the  house  is 
especially  lovely.  Near  the  hamlet  of  Pentreclwyday  are  some  cascades  which  are 
pretty,  but  not  of  much  importance. 


201 


SNOWDONIA  AXD  WALES. 


Two  miles  further  is  Pontneddfechan,  i.e.  the  Bridge  on  the  Lesser  Neath,  pronounced 
and  commonly  spelt  Pontneathvaughan,  a  small  hamlet  with  a  tolerable  inn,  the  best  in 
the  neighborhood.  Beyond,  Craig-y- Dinas,  a  lofty  rock  of  singular  form,  rising 
abruptly  among  the  surrounding  mountains,  presents  a  grand  and  pleasing  object. 
Ascend  the  rock  by  a  narrow  and  steep  road,  and  from  the  summit  look  down  upon  the 
Marquis  of  Bute’s  beautiful  nursery  plantations,  from  which  have  sprung  the  countless 
larch  and  other  trees  whic.i  clothe  the  adjacent  hills  and  slopes.  Proceed  by  a  rough 
track,  nearly  two  miles,  to  the  Upper  Cilhepste  cataract ;  but  before  descending  to  the 
fall,  pause  to  observe  the  extensive  prospect  here  disclosed— the  vale  of  Neath,  the 
country  around  Swansea,  the  Mumbles  point  and  lighthouse,  the  roadstead  and  vessels 
at  anchor,  the  wide  expanse  of  the  Bristol  Channel,  and  the  distant  coast  of  Somerset 
and  Devon.  The  Upper  Cilhepste  is  a  grand  sheet  of  water,  and  owing  to  the  abrupt 


CONWAY  CASTLE. 


form  of  the  ledge  of  rock  over  which  it  flows,  it  is  projected  to  such  a  distance  from 
the  cliff  as  to  leave  a  passage  behind,  wide  enough  to  allow  of  persons  walking,  and 
even  riding,  beneath  the  watery  arch.  A  descent  extremely  steep,  and  somewhat 
hazardous,  leads  to  the  fall  named  the  Lower  Cilhepste.  It  is,  more  accurately,  a  series 
of  falls,  and  the  total  height  is  not  less  than  300  feet.  This  is,  perhaps,  the  finest 
portion  in  the  whole  range,  but  on  account  of  the  difficulty  of  access  it  is  less  visited 
than  other  parts.  Next  proceed  to  the  falls  on  the  Mellte  river,  called  the  Chmgwyns. 
They  are  three  in  number,  and  truly  beautiful— the  middle  one  particularly  grand — all 
of  different  character  from  those  previously  visited  ;  and  the  surrounding  scenery,  with 
less  of  picturesque  beauty,  has  far  more  of  sublimity  and  grandeur.  The  path  is  intri¬ 
cate  and  not  easily  found  without  a  guide.  ‘In  passing  from  the  middle  to  the  highest 
of  these  three  falls,  it  is  necessary  either  to  cross  the  river  by  stepping  or  leaping  from 

202 


SNOWDONIA  AND  WALES. 


rock  to  rock,  or,  if  the  water  be  too  deep  to  allow  of  this,  to  return  to  the  top  of  the 
bank,  and  make  a  circuit  of  nearly  a  mile,  in  order  to  pass  an  obstructing  cliff.  Above  the 


CRAIG- Y-DINAS. 


highest  Clungwyn,  the  character  of  the  scenery  is  entirely  changed  ;  and  the  river  has 
a  tranquil  course,  over  a  pebbly  bed,  and  through  verdant  meadows.  At  about  a  mile 


lady’s  fall. 

from  this  point  a  view  is  obtained  of  the  village  and  church  of  h  stradfellte,  where  there 
are  some  particularly  large  yew  trees,  and  here  a  short  and  steep  descent  conducts  to 

203 


SNOWDOXIA  AND  WALES. 


the  entrance  of  Porth-yr-  Oogf,  or  the  cavern  of  Cwm  Forth.  This  is  a  stupendous 
natural  cavern  or  tunnel,  43  feet  wide,  20  feet  high,  and  extending  in  length  more  than 
half  a  mile,  through  which  the  Mellte  rolls  its  darkened  waters.  There  is  light  enough 
to  allow  of  entering  a  short  distance,  and  with  the  aid  of  torches  it  is  possible  (except 
after  heavy  rains)  to  penetrate  three  or  four  hundred  yards. 

The  next  object  is  the  falls  of  the  Perddyn.  The  first  of  these,  about  a  mile  and  a 
half  from  the  village,  is  called  Ysgwd  Einon  Gam ,  and  if  seen  under  favorable  circum¬ 
stances  cannot  fail  to  excite  the  highest  admiration.  The  solemn  grandeur  of  the  sur¬ 
rounding  cliffs,  the  beautiful  tints  of  the  waving  foliage  above,  and  the  furious  waters 
tearing  and  dashing  over  the  ledge  of  dark  rock,  and  then  precipitously  falling  in  an 


THE  CILHEPSTE  FALL. 

unbroken  sheet,  from  an  elevation  of  more  than  80  feet,  into  the  apparently  unfathom¬ 
able  abyss  below,  all  combine  to  produce  a  scene  most  exciting  and  impressive.  The 
river  above  this  fall  is  well  worth  visiting,  there  being  some  very  bold  rapids  ;  but  to 
avoid  excessive  fatigue,  it  may  be  advisable  to  take  the  course  usually  chosen  by  the 
guides,  who,  after  conducting  to  the  Einon  Gam,  return  down  the  river  to  Ysgwd 
Gwladys ,  or  the  Lady’s  Fall.  The  height  of  this  cascade  is  not  more  than  30  feet,  but 
it  is  distinguished  by  singular  elegance  and  surpassing  beauty. 

Four  miles  from  Tenby  is  Manorbeer  Station ,  nearly  two  miles  south  of  which,  upon 
the  coast,  is  the  small  village  of  that  name,  with  the  ruins  of  a  Norman  castle  built  in 

204 


SNOWDONIA  AND  WALES. 


PSETAYLOK  /• 


the  reign  of  Henry  I.  The  walls  are  lofty  and  embattled,  with  circular  towers  at  the 
angles,  and  a  larger  tower  and  watch-turret  at  the  entrance.  All  the  windows  open 
into  an  inner  court.  The  whole  is  destitute  of  ornament,  and  it  is  evident  that,  in  its 

construction,  strength  and  secur¬ 
ity  were  chiefly  considered.  Al¬ 
though  in  anexposedsituation,  and 
near  the  scene  of  many  conflicts,  it 
has  never  been  assailed  by  a  hostile 
force.  It  was  the  birthplace  in  the 
1 2th  century,  of  Giraldus  Cam- 


GATEWAY  OF  MANORBEER  CASTLE. 


brensis,  of  the  princely  family  of  De  Barri,  the  renowned  topographer  and  historian  of 
Wales.  The  castle  is  now  the  property  of  the  Rev.  J.  H.  A.  Philipps,  and  a  portion  of 
it  has  been  recently  fitted  up  as  a  modern  residence.  About  two  miles  to  the  north 
is  the  village  of  St.  Florence ,  with  a  fine  cruciform  church. 


205 


SNOWDONIA  AND  WALES. 


The  remains  of  ecclesiastical  structures  abound  in  every  part  of  Wales  Numerous 
vestiges  of  the  superstitious  ceremonies  of  Druidical  worship  life  scattered  over  the  face 
of  the  country.  Frequently,  too,  ancient  buildings  are  met  with  erected  at  later  periods 
for  religious  purposes,  as  cathedrals,  abbeys,  monasteries,  and  churches,  some  entire, 
and  others  partly  in  ruins,  many  of  them  of  great  architectural  interest,  although  gener¬ 
ally'  in  size  and  elaboration  of  detail  inferior  to  buildings  of  a  similar  kind  in  England. 

In  the  natural  aspect  of  the  country,  its  mountains  and  hills,  its  valleys  and  glens,  its 
lakes  and  rivers,  are  exhibited  scenes  of  beauty  and  of  grandeur,  which  in  few  regions 


events  and  traditionary  legends  of 
more  than  ordinary  interest,  and  »Hth  the  mouldering  monuments  of  past  ages, 
scarcely'  less  striking  than  the  splendid  and  romantic  scenery^.  The  inhabitants,  too,  are 
still  a  distinct  race  with  marked  peculiarities  ;  speaking  the  language  of  their  remote 
ancestors,  retaining,  notwithstanding  the  influence  of  English  civilization,  many  of  their 
old  customs,  and  cherishing  ardent  attachment  to  their  native  soil,  and  to  the  memory 
of  their  princes,  bards,  and  warriors. 

206 


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